Elias called Rhoda, and Bartley was not sorry to reach the point where their ways parted. He went to meet a maiden of other clay than this. Yet Rhoda always excited a very lively emotion in the youth by virtue of her originality, handsome person and self-sufficing qualities. When any girl made it clear to Bartley that she took no sort of interest in him, the remarkable fact woke quite a contrary attitude to her in his own ardent spirit. Where a row of stepping-stones crossed Sheepstor brook under avenues of-beech-trees above the village, Bartley left the Bowdens with a final proposal of friendliness. "Hounds meet at Cadworthy Bridge come Monday week. Hope I’ll see you then, if not sooner, Miss Rhoda." "Thank you, but I shan’t go. Fox-hunting’s nought to us." "Well, good-bye, then," answered he. "I’m walking this way to meet Madge Stanbury from Coombeshead. She’s coming to eat her dinner along with us." A silence more than usually formidable followed the announcement, and it was now not Rhoda but David who appeared to be concerned. He frowned, and even snorted. Actual anger flashed from his eyes, but he turned them on his sister, not on Mr. Crocker. Rhoda it was who spoke after a very lengthy peace. "If that’s so, there’s no call for you to go over to Coombeshead after dinner, David. Belike Margaret Stanbury’s forgot." "I was axed to tea, and I shall go to tea," he answered in a dogged and sulky voice. "We’ve no right to say she’s forgot." "That’s true," Rhoda admitted. Bartley wished them "good-bye" again and left them. He skipped over the stream and climbed the hill to Sheep’s Tor’s eastern slopes, while they went up through steep lanes, furze-brakes and stunted trees to the great tableland of the Moor. Mr. Crocker once turned a moment; and, as he did so, he marked the Bowden clan plodding on in evident silence to Ditsworthy. "Good God! ’tis like a funeral party after they’ve got rid of their dead," he thought. Ten minutes later a dark spot on the heath increased, approached swiftly and turned into a woman. Such haste had she made that her heart throbbed almost painfully. She pressed her hands to it and could not speak for a little while. Her face was bright and revealed an eager but a very sensitive spirit. There was something restless and birdlike about her, and something unutterably sweet; for this girl’s temper was woven of pure altruism. Welfare of others, by a sort of fine instinct, had long since become her welfare.