It was a lovely night. The previous night had been dull, but on this one the moon shone in all her splendour. Rupert did not fear a woman, least of all the one approaching, for he saw that it was Ann Canham. She had been at work at the parsonage. Mrs. Freeman, taking advantage of the departure of their guest, had instituted the autumn cleaning, delayed on his account; and Ann had been there to-day, helping Molly, and was to go also on the morrow. A few happy tears dropped from her eyes when she saw him. "The parson's already home with the good news, sir. But why ever do you sit here, Master Rupert?" "Because I have nowhere to go to," returned Rupert. Ann paused, and then spoke timidly. "Isn't there the Hold, as usual, sir?" "I can't go there. Chattaway might horsewhip me again, you know, Ann." The bitter mockery with which he spoke brought pain to her. "Where shall you go, sir?" "I don't know. Lie down under these trees till morning. I am awfully hungry." Ann Canham opened a basket which she carried, and took out a small loaf, or cake. She offered it to Rupert, curtseying humbly. "Molly has been baking to-day, sir; and the missis, she gave me this little loaf for my father. Please take it, sir." Rupert's impulse was to refuse, but hunger was strong within him. He took a knife from his pocket, cut it in two, and gave one half back to Ann Canham. "Tell Mark I had the other, Ann. He won't grudge it to me. And now go home. It's of no use your stopping here." She made as if she would depart, but hesitated. "Master Rupert, I don't like to leave you here so friendless. Won't you come to the lodge, sir, and shelter there for the night?" "No, that I won't," he answered. "Thank you, Ann; but I am not going to get you and Mark into trouble as I have got myself." She sighed as she finally went away. Would this unhappy trouble touching Rupert ever be over? Perhaps Rupert was asking the same. He ate the bread, and sat on the stile afterwards, ruminating. He was terribly bitter against Chattaway; but for his wicked conduct he should not now be the outcast he was. All the wrongs of his life rose up before him. The Hold that ought to be his, the rank he was deprived of, the wretched humiliations that were his daily portion. They assumed quite an exaggerated importance to his mind. He worked himself into--not the passion of the previous night, but into an angry, defiant temper; and he wished he could meet Chattaway face to face, and return the blows, the pain of which was still upon him. With a cry that almost burst from his lips in terror, with a feeling verging on the supernatural, he suddenly saw Chattaway before him. Rupert recovered himself, and though his heart beat pretty fast, he kept his seat on the stile in his defiant humour.