Again two days and he came to recover what was copied. Again she sat and span, and again she was conscious that he looked at her rather than at her father, and that, though he spoke aloud only to her father, there was some utterance trying to pierce its way to her. He went away—but the next day he came again, when there was no looking for him. Her father was away to the village. She was at the well, beneath the apple tree, by the heartsease bed. She turned from lifting the cool, brimming, dripping bucket, and saw him close beside her. “Good-day,” he said. “Good-day, sir.—He is not here. Father is not here!” “I am sorry for that,” he answered; then, after a silence in which she became aware that he was fighting, she knew not why, for breath, “But you are here.” “Aye,” said Joan. “I—I have so much to do.” She left the bucket on the coping of the well and started toward the cottage. “Father went but a little while ago. You may overtake him, sir,—” Carthew stood before her. “I have seen you at church three times. I have seen you here three times. For years I had not thought of earthly toys—my mind was set on the coming of the Kingdom of God.... And now _you_—_you_ come.... I think you have bewitched me.” Joan’s heart beat violently. A strong presence was beside her, before her. She wrenched herself free. “You must not speak so, sir. You must not speak so, Master Carthew! I am naught to you—you can be naught to me.” Brushing by him, she began to walk swiftly toward the cottage. He kept beside her. “You are much to me—and I will be much to you.... God knoweth the struggle, and knoweth if I be damned or no!—But now I will abide in this land that I believed not in—but I will serve Him still; even where I am, I will serve Him more strictly than before! So perhaps He will accept, and not too dreadfully condemn.... Do not doubt that I mean honestly by you.” “What you mean or mean not, I know not!” said Joan. “But I am all but a stranger to you, sir, and I will to remain so! Will you not go?—and my father shall bring you the writings—” Carthew’s hand clasped and unclasped. He had gone further than he ever meant to go to-day. Indeed, he had no plan, no gathered ideas. He might have pleaded that he was himself a victim, struck down unawares. Forces within had gathered, no doubt, for a violent reaction after violent, long-continued repression, and chance had set a woman, young and fair, in the eye of the reaction—and now in his soul there was a divided will and war, war! His brow showed struggle and misery, even while his eyes and parted lips desired wholly. With effort he won a temporary control. “I did not mean to frighten you. I mean no harm. I will say nothing more—not now, at least. Yes, I will ride away now, and come for the writing another day.—See, I am naught now but friend and well-wisher!”