Milking, skimming, cheesemaking were done. Her father was asleep in the settle, the milkmen and maids were gone home to their cottages, and the clock showed a quarter to eight. She dressed herself with care, went to the top of the garden, and looked over the stile. The view was eastward, and a great moon hung before her in a sky which had not a cloud. Nothing was moving except on the minutest scale, and she remained leaning over, the night-hawk sounding his croud from the bough of an isolated tree on the open hill side. Here Margery waited till the appointed time had passed by three-quarters of an hour; but no Baron came. She had been full of an idea, and her heart sank with disappointment. Then at last the pacing of a horse became audible on the soft path without, leading up from the water-meads, simultaneously with which she beheld the form of the stranger, riding home, as he had said. The moonlight so flooded her face as to make her very conspicuous in the garden-gap. ‘Ah my maiden—what is your name—Margery!’ he said. ‘How came you here? But of course I remember—we were to meet. And it was to be at eight—_proh pudor_!—I have kept you waiting!’ ‘It doesn’t matter, sir. I’ve thought of something.’ ‘Thought of something?’ ‘Yes, sir. You said this morning that I was to think what I would like best in the world, and I have made up my mind.’ ‘I did say so—to be sure I did,’ he replied, collecting his thoughts. ‘I remember to have had good reason for gratitude to you.’ He placed his hand to his brow, and in a minute alighted, and came up to her with the bridle in his hand. ‘I was to give you a treat or present, and you could not think of one. Now you have done so. Let me hear what it is, and I’ll be as good as my word.’ ‘To go to the Yeomanry Ball that’s to be given this month.’ ‘The Yeomanry Ball—Yeomanry Ball?’ he murmured, as if, of all requests in the world, this was what he had least expected. ‘Where is what you call the Yeomanry Ball?’ ‘At Exonbury.’ ‘Have you ever been to it before?’ ‘No, sir.’ ‘Or to any ball?’ ‘No.’ ‘But did I not say a gift—a present?’ ‘Or a treat?’ ‘Ah, yes, or a treat,’ he echoed, with the air of one who finds himself in a slight fix. ‘But with whom would you propose to go?’ ‘I don’t know. I have not thought of that yet.’ ‘You have no friend who could take you, even if I got you an invitation?’ Margery looked at the moon. ‘No one who can dance,’ she said; adding, with hesitation, ‘I was thinking that perhaps—’ ‘But, my dear Margery,’ he said, stopping her, as if he half-divined what her simple dream of a cavalier had been; ‘it is very odd that you can think of nothing else than going to a Yeomanry Ball. Think again. You are sure there is nothing else?’