She looked at him with a vague little smile. Her eyes swam as pale a blue as plumbago flowers. Her features were cut to a sharpish pattern; but their complexion was of snow berries, and the softness of youth triumphed over all angles. Suddenly she put her hands to her rumpled hair. “My hat!” she cried. “I fear it has followed the _saltier_. We must make shift without it.” She rose at once and took the arm he offered. The shock and the fright seemed to have confused her, so that her actions and most of her speech were mechanical. When he had helped her to mount and was riding beside her, he had full opportunity, in the intermittent silences that fell awkwardly between them, to study her very dainty personality. She managed her “grey” like one finely educated in the science of horsemanship. All graces of mien and action seemed exhibited with the cultivated art that conceals art. Now and again he would be conscious of an inquisitive glance shot in his direction, and the little confusion that followed upon discovery was skillfully expressed. A long two miles they rode together, by further way of the “Delsrop” road; and presently, skirting a sweep of park-land--in ordered contrast with Mr. Tukes’ domain--came in view of a lodge and gates of the most admired substantiality. Here the gentleman would insist upon delivering up his charge, and returning the way he had come. No pretty remonstrances would avail to make him spoil the romance of the situation by so much as a yard of anti-climax. “I am too happy in having been the means of help,” said he. “If you are beholden to me at all, a word of thanks from your brother would make me a debtor instead of a creditor.” She smiled back delightfully. “He shall come in person,” she said, “and bring you a receipt of my safe custody.” She laughed and waved to him, and was gone up the drive. He stood hat in hand until she had disappeared. Then he mounted and rode back, with a heart full of sun and merriment. Indeed, it was like a sail to a castaway, this vision in his waste of days. To know that refined civilization was within a couple of miles or so of his gates, did more to reconcile him to his embowered lot, than any philosophy of nature. He felt friendless and isolated no longer; but rather inspired to a pursuit that should make of his thickets a garden of Hesperus. In this mood of exaltation he reached his own door, rapped on it with the butt of his riding-whip, and, as it was swung open, encountered the figures of Whimple and his sister arrayed as if for a journey. CHAPTER IX. The man’s face looked fallen and hectic; but he was recovered at least of his fit. Darda clung to his arm, a frail, defiant, wisp of a thing, her hair a quivering mist of fire in the light of the low-down sun. “Whither away?” said the baronet in surprise. “My horse, Whimple.” Dennis put his sister gently to one side, and took the bridle. Standing thus, he turned to his master and spoke him quietly.