She sang as she moved (adapting them to an air of her own contriving) some words by a Mr. Wordsworth, who was then nothing popular in men’s mouths. But a travelling tinker (perhaps Peter Bell) had left the book with her as a tribute to her prettiness, and Betty knowing nothing of schools appreciated the gift. “Sometimes he’ll hide in the cave of a rock, Then whistle as shrill as the buzzard cock,” she warbled of the wind; and a blade of it flashed in cuttingly on the note, for just then somebody pushed open the tap-door and entered. Her song died in her throat. It went up like the requiem of the phœnix, in a flame of fire that reddened her cheeks, and then left them white as the ashes of rose leaves. “Mr. Tuke,” she whispered. He came in with a dark look on his face, that seemed stiff, moreover, with the onset of furious blasts; but the teeth showed in a smile as he walked up to the counter and held out his hand to the girl. “Are you alone, Betty?” “Yes,” she murmured, almost inaudibly. He clasped the soft palm in his, and would not let it go. “And you are decorating,” he said. “How snug and warm it looks, and I am chilled to the bone.” Her face was gathering its pinks again. “Won’t your honour come and toast at the parlour-fire?” she said timidly. “’Tis raw and cold where you stand.” “I know it, my dear. The wind was a file in my teeth as I walked from ‘Delsrop.’” “Walked! Your honour has walked?” “And why not, Betty? That is a rare febrifuge--a night-tramp in a north-easter.” She looked up at him strangely, as she undid the hasp of the half-door of the bar and held the panel open. He paused on the threshold. “You are alone, you say?” “All but for Jim, who nods in the kitchen. I was moving to lock up when your honour came.” “Do so now, and send the lad to bed. I want you to myself, Betty.” He did not wait for an answer; but walked past the girl and into the little warm room beyond her. And here he stood looking down upon the red glow of the fire. He was conscious of a considerable pause, and then of an uncertain step moving away from the counter. A fierce and reckless devil was riding him, and all his senses were acute to answer to the bit. Presently he heard a shutter going gently into place, and then the step again, and a soft voice--almost with an entreating anguish in it, as if it would fain have its order discarded. “Jim, you can go to bed.” There followed a dragging sound and a heavy shuffling tread, that receded and died out. He waited once more--interminably it seemed. At length he made up his mind and strode out into the tap. The girl was leaning silently against the counter, her breath coming fast, her cheeks the colour of ladysmocks. Without a word he led her into the little room and swung to the door. He put her before him and, taking her face between his hands, looked into her frightened eyes.