Back upon the forest track which he had pursued, and then upon the road that ran between Hawthorn and the Oak Grange, he saw naught of Joan, though he looked for her. She was fleet-footed; by now she was within her own door. But on the road, no great distance beyond the cottage, he came upon another woman, walking toward the village. This was the sempstress’s daughter, Alison Inch.... Two years gone by, Alison had spent some weeks in Carthew House, sewing for Madam Carthew. He had been reading aloud that winter to his sister-in-law, who was a learned and pious lady, and Alison had sat in a corner, sewing and listening. The reading done, he had at times explained the discourse or added illustration, encouraging the women to ask questions.—He felt friendly toward Alison, and always, since that time, answered her curtsy when they chanced to meet by a grave enquiry as to her health and welfare, the spiritual being meant rather than the bodily. To-day he walked his horse beside her. “You have been riding through the forest, sir?” she asked. “It is a fine day for riding.” “Yes—I wished to enquire for a man at the North-End Farm.” He rode and she walked in silence, then she spoke in a dry, thin, and strained voice. “I was walking to Heron’s cottage to see Joan. But she was not there.—She’s not much like others. When she gets her work done, she’s off to herself somewhere—maybe to the wood, maybe elsewhere. It’s often so that you can’t find her.” Now Carthew had found, too, that you couldn’t always find her. Suddenly his brow grew black again; he had not put that two and two together. “Alison,” he said and paused. Alison, with an air of not looking at him at all, was watching closely. “Yes, Master Carthew?” He rode a little farther in silence, then he said determinedly: “Master Aderhold who lives at the Oak Grange—” He paused. “Yes, sir?” said Alison. “He is a strange man,” said Carthew. “I remember when he came to Hawthorn, when I rode with him from the town, I thought him of a strange and doubtful mind.—We have not caught him tripping yet, but Master Clement holds that he thinks perversely, not according to sound doctrine.” “People say that he makes gold and hoards it,” said Alison, “and that he hath a familiar.” She was not interested in Master Aderhold, but she would keep up whatever ball Master Harry Carthew tossed. “I know not as to that,” said Carthew. “It is enough if he setteth up his own judgement and denieth essential doctrines.—It were surely ill for any upon whom he might thrust his company—ill, I mean, for them to be seen with him often and in close talk. In common charity any such should be warned. I dare aver he is often straying through the forest or upon this road.” Alison looked aside. She did not know yet what he would be at, but her every sense was sharpened. “Have you ever seen,” asked Carthew with careful carelessness—“have you ever chanced to see him and Goodman Heron’s daughter Joan together?”