"She’d forgive ’em right enough if she was married to me. Anyway, when my dear mother’s laid to her rest, after a few days are past, I shall ask Rhoda again. The time has come to do it." "I think it has." "Will she be along with you at Christmas?" "No," answered Margaret. "’Tis ordained that we all go to Ditsworthy for Christmas dinner. ’Tis a longful time since David was to home, and his mother has planned this." "Well, you must ask me a bit later. Or I’ll try to get David to bid me come and eat along with you after New Year. I may tell you this: David wouldn’t make any objection." "None--none at all." Bartley began to spare a little thought from himself for Margaret. He had often wondered whether his plain hints to her husband brought any fruit for her. To-day he was in a high-strung and somewhat emotional mood; therefore he did not shirk the subject as usual; but prepared to plunge into it. "Let’s get down the hill," he said. "We’ll go so far as Nosworthy bridge together, if that’s not drawing you too much out of your way." "’Twill suit very well," she answered. "I want to meet Rhoda, and she’ll be fetching back by the bridge afore long." "You’ll be hungry." "No; I’ve got a bit of bread and cheese in my pocket. You can have half, if you mind to." He shook his head. "Can’t eat to-day. ’Twill be a fast day in my life for evermore." "Dear Hartley, I don’t say much. Who can say anything to the purpose against such a loss? But I do feel for you." "I know it, Madge. Nobody’ll feel for me like you. Give me your hand. ’Tis a thought steep here; but it leads to the best road to the bottom." He helped her down the crooked acclivities, and in half an hour they were at the bridge beneath. Here Meavy opens her arms, and shutting them again, creates a little island. The waters join once more below and sing and foam under the ivy-mantled span of one grey arch. To-day naked boughs thrust up from the drooping red mat of the brake-fern, and the leaves of the willows were reduced to a mere yellow sparkle of yellow on the boughs. Only the greater furze laid a heavy green in great masses on the harmony of winter colours. Bartley led the way by mossy stones beside a backwater where dead leaves danced. "We’ll sit on the island," he said, "while you eat your food. There’s an old hurdle there, and I’ll put my coat over it for you." A few moments later they were talking about Margaret’s self, and she felt her heart flutter somewhat at this sudden and very unexpected change of subject. "D’you mind what you told me some time since, Madge?" he asked. "At least it can’t be said you told me; but, between the lines of things that you spoke, I somehow pieced together a sort of feeling you wasn’t as happy as you’d a right to be." "How can you think so? I’m sure--"