While he leaned against the rail, gazing at that ancient edifice, he saw a girl walk into the churchyard at the far end, sit down on a gravestone, and begin digging a little hole in the grass with the toe of her boot. She did not seem to see him, and at his ease he studied her face, one of those broad, bright English country faces with deep-set rogue eyes and red, thick, soft lips, smiling on little provocation. In spite of her disgrace, in spite of the fact that she was sitting on her mother's grave, she did not look depressed. And Derek thought: 'Wilmet Gaunt is the jolliest of them all! She isn't a bit a bad girl, as they say; it's only that she must have fun. If they drive her out of here, she'll still want fun wherever she is; she'll go to a town and end up like those girls I saw in Bristol.' And the memory of those night girls, with their rouged faces and cringing boldness, came back to him with horror. He went across the grass toward her. She looked round as he came, and her face livened. “Well, Wilmet?” “You're an early bird, Mr. Derek.” “Haven't been to bed.” “Oh!” “Been up Malvern Beacon to see the sun rise.” “You're tired, I expect!” “No.” “Must be fine up there. You'd see a long ways from there; near to London I should think. Do you know London, Mr. Derek?” “No.” “They say 'tis a funny place, too.” Her rogue eyes gleamed from under a heavy frown. “It'd not be all 'Do this' an' 'Do that'; an' 'You bad girl' an' 'You little hussy!' in London. They say there's room for more'n one sort of girl there.” “All towns are beastly places, Wilmet.” Again her rogue's eyes gleamed. “I don' know so much about that, Mr. Derek. I'm going where I won't be chivied about and pointed at, like what I am here.” “Your dad's stuck to you; you ought to stick to him.” “Ah, Dad! He's losin' his place for me, but that don't stop his tongue at home. 'Tis no use to nag me—nag me. Suppose one of m'lady's daughters had a bit of fun—they say there's lots as do—I've heard tales—there'd be none comin' to chase her out of her home. 'No, my girl, you can't live here no more, endangerin' the young men. You go away. Best for you's where they'll teach you to be'ave. Go on! Out with you! I don't care where you go; but you just go!' 'Tis as if girls were all pats o' butter—same square, same pattern on it, same weight, an' all.” Derek had come closer; he put his hand down and gripped her arm. Her eloquence dried up before the intentness of his face, and she just stared up at him. “Now, look here, Wilmet; you promise me not to scoot without letting us know. We'll get you a place to go to. Promise.” A little sheepishly the rogue-girl answered: “I promise; only, I'm goin'.” Suddenly she dimpled and broke into her broad smile. “Mr. Derek, d'you know what they say—they say you're in love. You was seen in th' orchard. Ah! 'tis all right for you and her! But if any one kiss and hug ME, I got to go!”