There had been something chaste and exquisite about this maiden in the garden that had touched a tender chord in George Coventry's breast. He felt an inward certainty that the girl was gentle, simple, sweet--a little saint, with her aureole of hair, and her artless singing of the old familiar hymn. The impression lured him so irresistibly that he was several times on the point of turning his horse's head, but each excuse that presented itself struck him as too thin. He had lost his way--where to? He had been suddenly taken ill, felt faint; the very idea caused him to smile--he had never felt faint in his life and did not know how to enact the symptoms, and no one would for a moment believe him to be ill, judging by his appearance of hopelessly robust health! Perhaps a cigarette would stimulate his imagination; he put his hand in his pocket and encountered a knife given him only yesterday by his sister for his birthday--the kind of gift "for a man" above which certain feminine minds seem unable to rise when cigarette-cases, sleeve-links, tie-pins and pocket-books have been exhausted. The knife was a cumbersome plated article, comprising, in addition to blades of all sizes, a corkscrew, folding scissors, a button-hook, and an instrument intended for the extraction of stones from horses' hoofs. For once he blessed Nellie's limited notions of masculine needs, because her present suggested a plausible plea. He dismounted and searched about the ground for a pebble that might suit his purpose. Anyone passing would have supposed that the big, bronzed young man scraping in the dust of the country road must have dropped some treasured possession. Presently he passed his hand with practised touch down the horse's fetlock, and the animal raised its hoof in docile response. Coventry wedged a little stone between the hoof and the shoe, then turned in the direction of the vicarage, the bridle over his arm, the horse limping, ever so slightly, behind him. At the wooden entrance gate he paused. The vicarage front door stood open, and across the rough gravel sweep he could see into the hall--see a stone-paved floor and an oak chest, with hats and coats hanging from hooks above it. A rose-scented peace enveloped the house and garden; he heard no sound save the high, clear calling of birds. A sudden reluctance assailed him, kept him standing at the gate, his hand on the latch, his heart beating fast; a fateful feeling that if he disturbed this somnolent calm his whole life, his whole future, would be affected, whether for evil or for good. The horse nuzzled his shoulder gently, a yellow butterfly skimmed past. He thought of the girl's golden hair in the sunshine, and he swung open the gate.