‘To know that goes as near as anything can to reconciling me to my inevitable loss,’ he said, still in a low tone, as they resumed their way. They left the solitary, silent river walk, dangerous in its beauty and its associations, for the more prosaic regions of the kitchen-garden. While they waited for the gardener to come, Nita said: ‘Don’t let me keep you here. I shall be ever so long; and then I have to go to the farm. You will want to go down to Monk’s Gate, I daresay.’ ‘I do; but I am emboldened to ask a favour of you, first.’ ‘What is that?’ ‘When you have quite finished your business here, will it be too much to ask you to come down to Monk’s Gate, and give me a little advice? There is some furniture in it, but I don’t know whether it can be used. I am a man, you see, and naturally helpless in such a case. If you did not mind very much——’ ‘I shall be delighted. I will come down as soon as ever I have finished. Shall I find you there?’ ‘You will find me there. If not in the house, in the garden; and if not in the garden, in the house. Thank you, very much.’ Lifting his hat he left her, and went down the river walk. Adamson, the gardener, found his young mistress strangely distraite and forgetful—a phenomenon which puzzled him, for he was wont to bear admiring testimony to her clearness of head, and readiness of comprehension, saying: ‘Eh, but hoo’s a rare sharp un, is Miss Bolton. Hoo’s a chip of the ’owd block in more ways nor one, _hoo_ is.’ * * * * * Wellfield, meanwhile, had taken his way down the river walk, the entrance to which was in the village street, close beside the ancient stone bridge. On the other side of this bridge, a stony, steep, wood-shaded walk led invitingly up a hill, then bent round to the left, leaving the rest of that enticing way to conjecture. This path, as Jerome remembered, took one to the top of a hill called Wellfield Nab or Neb, or simply ‘the Nab.’ He remembered climbing it sixteen years ago, with his tutor and John Leyburn; and the glorious view of the surrounding country which it commanded, he remembered too. At the foot of the Nab, almost out of sight from the bridge, he could just catch a glimpse of a couple of gables, belonging to the Abbot’s Knoll house—Leyburn’s dwelling. John rode every morning to his mill, which was some two miles distant, on the road to Burnham. Down the quaint paved street Jerome walked towards the church, that ancient ‘white church under the hill,’ which had weathered so many storms and troubles. A sleepy place, Wellfield—a place which seemed forgotten of all men save the few who lived in it. Monk’s Gate was only a very few minutes’ walk from the church, the clock of which struck eleven as Jerome opened the gate of the garden. He unlocked the door, and went into the house again, but did not remain there long. He felt that he really did require Nita’s assistance, and must wait until she arrived.