'Who is't that's bin puttin' ye into this distress?' His voice sounded loud and harsh. 'No one, no one. I canna tell ye, Mr. Garstin.... It's no one,' she protested weakly. The white, twisted look on his face frightened her. 'My God!' he burst out, gripping her wrist, 'an' a proper soft fool ye've made o' me. Who is't, I tell ye? Who's t' man?' 'Ye're hurtin' me. Let me go. I canna tell ye.' 'And ye're fond o' him?' 'No, no. He's a wicked, sinful man. I pray God I may never set eyes on him again. I told him so.' 'But ef he's got ye into trouble, he'll hev t' marry ye,' he persisted with a brutal bitterness. 'I will not. I hate him!' she cried fiercely. 'But is he _willin'_ t' marry ye?' 'I don't know ... I don't care ... he said so before he went away ... But I'd kill myself sooner than live with him.' He let her hands fall and stepped back from her. She could only see his figure, like a sombre cloud, standing before her. The whole fell-side seemed still and dark and lonely. Presently she heard his voice again: 'I reckon what there's one road oot o' yer distress.' She shook her head drearily. 'There's none. I'm a lost woman.' 'An' ef ye took me instead?' he said eagerly. 'I--I don't understand--' 'Ef ye married me instead of Luke Stock?' 'But that's impossible--the--the--' 'Ay, t' child. I know. But I'll tak t' child as mine.' She remained silent. After a moment he heard her voice answer in a queer, distant tone: 'You mean that--that ye're ready to marry me, and adopt the child?' 'I do,' he answered doggedly. 'But people--your mother--?' 'Folks 'ull jest know nought about it. It's none o' their business. T' child 'ull pass as mine. Ye'll accept that?' 'Yes,' she answered, in a low, rapid voice. 'Ye'll consent t' hev me, ef I git ye oot o' yer trouble?' 'Yes,' she repeated, in the same tone. She heard him draw a long breath. 'I said 't was a turn o' Providence, meetin' wi' ye oop here,' he exclaimed, with half-suppressed exultation. Her teeth began to chatter a little: she felt that he was peering at her, curiously, through the darkness. 'An' noo,' he continued briskly, 'ye'd best be gettin' home. Give me ye're hand, an' I'll stiddy ye ower t' stones.' He helped her down the bank of shingle, exclaiming: 'By goom, ye're stony cauld.' Once or twice she slipped: he supported her, roughly gripping her knuckles. The stones rolled down the steps, noisily, disappearing into the night. Presently they struck the turf bridle-path, and, as they descended silently towards the lights of the village, he said gravely: 'I always reckoned what my day 'ud coom.' She made no reply; and he added grimly: 'There'll be terrible work wi' mother over this.' He accompanied her down the narrow lane that led past her uncle's house. When the lighted windows came in sight he halted. 'Good night, lassie,' he said kindly. 'Do ye give ower distressin' yeself.'