"No. I do not often get to Betty's kitchen now," said Tom, with something very like a sigh. "More's the pity; you see, I can't very well go openly, and you wouldn't have me go like a thief in the night." "No, I would not. It's all this wretched law business, of course. But which way were you going, uphill, or down?" "Bilberry! Well, there'll be a breeze from the water's face. But I think I ought to be turning homewards." "May I accompany you, Miss Tinker? You pass near my own mill, you know." "La! _my_ mill! how grand it sounds. I think I should like to say _my_ mill, and to feel that the hands were _my_ people. 'Tis a relic of feudalism, I suppose." Tom raised his eyebrows almost imperceptibly. He had not credited Dorothy with much historical knowledge. "Oh, you needn't look so superior, Mr. Wiseacre. I've read a book or two, though I don't teach classes on Sunday, like a naughty, defiant unbeliever, as some folk are. But there, you shan't accompany me homewards. That will perhaps teach you to veil your superiority." "I assure you, Miss Tinker," began Tom, but boggled at his disclaimer, for he was a poor liar, and Dorothy had; divined his thoughts shrewdly. "Instead," said Dorothy, enjoying his confusion, "instead I will go on with you to Bilberry Reservoir: I've as much right to the cool breeze from its surface as you have, and if you've no very great objection, Mr. Pinder, you may give me your arm up the hill." Tom flushed to the brow and, feeling weak as water, hoped that Dorothy's ears were not as quick, as her eyes, for sure she would have heard the beating of his heart. "Do you know, Miss Dorothy, I think it's the very first time I've been asked to give a lady my arm." "Been asked?" said Dorothy, and part withdrew her little hand. "Or given it, of course. I should never dream of giving it unasked." "Oh!" said Dorothy, and her hand stole back again. "What, not to Lucy?" "Oh, well, you know. Well, perhaps Lucy may have taken it sometimes when she felt overdone can't say for sure. One doesn't think of these things." "Oh! don't they?" queried Dorothy, and her hand again made for retreat. "Not with Lucy, I mean," added Tom. "Oh!" and the hand now was restful. They walked slowly towards the reservoir, leaving the highway, and treading on the soft close-cropped grass that fringed the moor. A grouse, occasionally, whirring low near the heather, cried its alarmed "Go-back, go-back," and the faint sound of the sportsman's gun was borne upon the wind. Silence fell upon the two, a silence that Tom knew not, nor cared to break. "And what about Miss Baxter's apprentice?" at last spoke Dorothy, very softly. Tom did not seem to hear. In truth he walked in a blissful trance. The question fell upon his ear, but the words, as words will when the mind is dreaming, tarried ere they reached his senses. It seemed to Dorothy as if there had been a long gap in their conversation when he spoke.