Through the dewy garden Lanty led his guest past the ivied seat and the pink fingers of the cherry-tree, and so out by the little stile under the mighty shadow of Bluecaster walls. As they passed the great, wrought gates, already closed for the night, he caught a glimpse of the house itself, its bare flagstaff proclaiming mutely that the master was from home. Then they were under the walls again, sunk in an avenue of lime, and presently in the Lane. There was the whole of wonder through the Green Gates to-night. The chestnuts were already turning to the pure crimson that comes with the first frost. Already, in the little plantation backing Rakestraw, the beeches had red at their feet. A late harvest-field, stooked and waiting, lay wanly yellow under the white over-world between dark building and close-laid fence. There was a moon coming, a big moon slowly topping the hill, and when it came the hill would go black, and Rakestraw lights would beckon like swung lanterns of horn. His first look was for his Mountain, as usual, but it was not there. From the day of the marsh-meeting he never saw his Ghost-Mountain again, until his life had been broken utterly and utterly re-made. Dandy was thinking of Harriet as they walked in the quiet of the Lane. Both her sudden defeat and her violent independence had held a touch of pathos. She asked Lanty how long he had known her. “All her life, or thereabouts. Her people belong here--good old yeoman stock, the best in the land. The backbone of England, some of the books call it! It’s true, too. That’s why Harriet’s so dead sure of herself--she’s on her own ground. She runs her own farm with the help of a good head man. I got him for her. It’s quite a model place; you ought to see it. There isn’t much about farming she doesn’t know. She’s a good hand with a plough, too, and can swing a scythe with anybody. Oh yes, Harriet’s all right in her own way! It’s only her manners that are wrong, and goodness knows _I_’ve no need to talk! She bullies you no end, but she’s absolutely straight--couldn’t cheat if she tried. We’ve never been very thick, she and I, but she gets on with my aunt all right, and she’s one of our own people, and that means a lot, after all!” He laughed as he finished, surprised to find himself so urgent in Harriet’s praise. He was thinking purely of his offended guest, but his companion felt, as she had felt at Watters, the intangible barrier of outlook rise between them. She had better manners than Harriet--yes--but she knew nothing whatever about a farm. She was better-tempered, but she couldn’t tell the signs of the weather. And she was decidedly better-looking, but she couldn’t bumble or scythe or pick out a prize hunter. And all that this first autumn night meant to Lanty, Harriet knew as she couldn’t possibly know. She was outside. The smell of the bonfires came again--the fine, pungent smell that is incense in country nostrils. Lancaster lifted his head as he caught it.