The mossy undergrowth, so luxurious and soft, was wet with the morning’s rain, and yielded in all its velvet inequalities and cushions of brilliant verdure, to her feet, which made no sound. Neither did that of the other, who was threading the same maze, coming towards her with the books under his arm, making his way ten miles round to the rectory, unconscious how near he was to the object of his thoughts. When they came suddenly in sight of each other round the great headland of the furze bush, one of the giants of the common, all keen prickles and honey flowers, Elly nearly dropped her basket and John let fall his books. He had to stoop to gather them up as he took off his hat: but before even this their looks had leaped to each other and met and made all clear--the fright, the panic, the heavenly content and delight flashed from one to the other. What more could words say? And then, when the books were collected and the basket held fast, there was a pause. ‘I didn’t know you would be passing here,’ said Elly, with an unconscious excuse to herself, as if something within had suddenly accused her of coming on purpose to meet one who--was it not so?--she was a little anxious to avoid. ‘No--and I didn’t mean it,’ said John. He added, after a moment, ‘I think it must be fate.’ ‘What must be fate? I am going to Betty Mirfield’s cottage, where I go always every week.’ ‘I know,’ said John, humbly; ‘you are always going about doing good, whereas I never think of anyone but myself.’ This gave Elly strength to laugh, which she had been too much agitated (which was so ridiculous!) to be capable of before. ‘If you call it doing good to take old Betty her tea and sugar! You never used to call things by such fine names.’ ‘I never understood what anything meant in those old days,’ said John, with an air of preternatural seriousness. As a matter of fact, he was in such a condition of emotion and excitement that he could scarcely speak. ‘Oh, Jack! How can you say such things? I think you understood far better than you do now. You look almost,’ said Elly, giving him a succession of furtive glances, ‘as if you were--afraid--of me. How can you be afraid--of me? or make fine speeches about doing good and that, Jack, to me!’ ‘Elly,’ he said all at once, very tremulously, ‘I am dreadfully unhappy: if I seem strange that is the cause.’ ‘Unhappy!’ she exclaimed, with a little cry of distress. ‘Oh, Jack, why? Tell me!’ And throwing down her basket she caught his arm with her hands, and looked up anxiously into his face, her eyes all set in curves and puckers of sympathy and disquietude. She forgot even for the moment all the heart-breakings of this critical moment and thought only what could be the matter. What could she do to comfort him? Unhappy was a word of dreadful meaning to Elly’s ear.