"What will he think? what will he think?" she kept saying to herself as she longed to lay her hands in his, and to tell him that it was no fault of hers, but an accident that Captain Rolph had met her during her walk. But she could not tell him--she dared not. It was like a confession that she cared for his opinion more than for that of anybody in the world. It would be unmaidenly, and degrading, and strange; and there was nothing for her to do but assume anger and annoyance, and treat Oldroyd as if he had been playing the part of spy. A very weak conclusion, no doubt, but it was the only one at which, in her misery, she arrived. The sun was shining now from a pure, blue sky, the birds were darting beneath the trees, where the long spider webs hung, strung with jewels, that flashed and glowed as they were passing fast away. There was a delicious aroma, too, in the soft breeze that floated from among the gloomy pines; but to those who went on, side by side, it was as if the morning had become overcast; all was stormy and grey, and life was in future to be one long course of desolation and despair. Nature was at her best, and all was beautiful; but Lucy could not see a ray of hope in the far-off future. Philip Oldroyd could see a gloomy, wasted life--the life of a man who had trusted and believed; but to find that the woman was weak and vain as the rest of her sex. They had relapsed into silence, and were going on pretty swiftly towards The Firs, but their proceedings did not seem to either to be at all strange. Lucy's destination was, of course, home, and Oldroyd appeared resolved to accompany her; why, he knew not, and it did not trouble him after the first few minutes, seeming quite natural that he should take her to task, and he determined, as a punishment, to see her safely back. She did not deserve it, of that she was sure, but there was something comfortable and satisfactory in being thus silently scolded by one much wiser and stronger than herself. Oldroyd wished to speak. He had a good deal to say--so he felt, but not a word escaped him till they reached the steep path that ran up to the gates at The Firs, when he drew rein, and made way for Lucy to pass. "Good-bye," he said. "Good-bye," faltered Lucy, looking at him wistfully. He looked down into her eyes from where he sat, with his very heart ready to leap from his breast towards her; but, as he gazed, he saw again the sunny sandy road with the velvety grass, and golden-bloomed furze on either side; the long, sloping bank with its columnar pines, and the dark background of sombre green, while in front was Lucy, the girl in whom he had so believed, walking with Rolph; and then all was bitterness and cloud once more. "He was marked," thought Oldroyd; "there was a patch of plaister on his forehead. Hang it all! could he have shot that man?"