Anthony looked up at her as she spoke. She wore a straw hat, trimmed with crimson velvet, and a black, fur-edged cape, that seemed to set off mightily the fine whiteness of her neck. Her large, dark eyes were fixed upon him. He shifted his feet uneasily, and dropped his glance. She linked her uncle's arm in hers, and the three moved slowly forward. Old Mr. Blencarn walked with difficulty, pausing at intervals for breath. Anthony, his eyes bent on the ground, sauntered beside him, clumsily kicking at the cobbles that lay in his path. When they reached the vicarage gate, the old man asked him to come inside. 'Not jest now, thank ye, Mr. Blencarn. I've that lot o' lambs t' see to before dinner. It's a grand marnin', this,' he added, inconsequently. 'Uncle's bought a nice lot o' Leghorns, Tuesday,' Rosa remarked. Anthony met her gaze; there was a grave, subdued expression on her face this morning, that made her look more of a woman, less of a girl. 'Ay, do ye show him the birds, Rosa. I'd be glad to have his opinion on 'em.' The old man turned to hobble into the house, and Rosa, as she supported his arm, called back over her shoulder: 'I'll not be a minute, Mr. Garstin.' Anthony strolled round to the yard behind the house, and waited, watching a flock of glossy-white poultry that strutted, perkily pecking, over the grass-grown cobbles. 'Ay, Miss Rosa, they're a bonny lot,' he remarked, as the girl joined him. 'Are they not?' she rejoined, scattering a handful of corn before her. The birds scuttled across the yard with greedy, outstretched necks. The two stood, side by side, gazing at them. 'What did he give for 'em?' Anthony asked. 'Fifty-five shillings.' 'Ay,' he assented, nodding absently. 'Was Dr. Sanderson na seein' o' yer father yesterday?' he asked, after a moment. 'He came in t' forenoon. He said he was jest na worse.' 'Ye knaw, Miss Rosa, as I'm still thinkin' on ye,' he began abruptly, without looking up. 'I reckon it ain't much use,' she answered shortly, scattering another handful of corn towards the birds. 'I reckon I'll never marry. I'm jest weary o' bein' courted--' 'I would na weary ye wi' courtin',' he interrupted. She laughed noisily. 'Ye are a queer customer, an' na mistake.' 'I'm a match for Luke Stock anyway,' he continued fiercely. 'Ye think nought o' taking oop wi' him--about as ranty, wild a young feller as ever stepped.' The girl reddened, and bit her lip. 'I don't know what you mean, Mr. Garstin. It seems to me ye're might hasty in jumpin' t' conclusions.' 'Mabbe I kin see a thing or two,' he retorted doggedly. 'Luke Stock's gone to London, anyway.' 'Ay, an' a powerful good job too, in t' opinion o' some folks.' 'Ye're jest jealous,' she exclaimed, with a forced titter. 'Ye're jest jealous o' Luke Stock.' 'Nay, but ye need na fill yer head wi' that nonsense. I'm too deep set on ye t' feel jealousy,' he answered, gravely. The smile faded from her face, as she murmured: