Anniversaries having been unpropitious, he waited on till a bright day late in May—a day when all animate nature was fancying, in its trusting, foolish way, that it was going to bask out of doors for evermore. As he rode through Long-Ash Lane it was scarce recognizable as the track of his two winter journeys. No mistake could be made now, even with his eyes shut. The cuckoo’s note was at its best, between April tentativeness and midsummer decrepitude, and the reptiles in the sun behaved as winningly as kittens on a hearth. Though afternoon, and about the same time as on the last occasion, it was broad day and sunshine when he entered Hintock, and the details of the Knap dairy-house were visible far up the road. He saw Sally in the garden, and was set vibrating. He had first intended to go on to the inn; but ‘No,’ he said; ‘I’ll tie my horse to the garden-gate. If all goes well it can soon be taken round: if not, I mount and ride away’ The tall shade of the horseman darkened the room in which Mrs. Hall sat, and made her start, for he had ridden by a side path to the top of the slope, where riders seldom came. In a few seconds he was in the garden with Sally. Five—ay, three minutes—did the business at the back of that row of bees. Though spring had come, and heavenly blue consecrated the scene, Darton succeeded not. ‘_No_,’ said Sally firmly. ‘I will never, never marry you, Mr. Darton. I would have done it once; but now I never can.’ ‘But!’—implored Mr. Darton. And with a burst of real eloquence he went on to declare all sorts of things that he would do for her. He would drive her to see her mother every week—take her to London—settle so much money upon her—Heaven knows what he did not promise, suggest, and tempt her with. But it availed nothing. She interposed with a stout negative, which closed the course of his argument like an iron gate across a highway. Darton paused. ‘Then,’ said he simply, ‘you hadn’t heard of my supposed failure when you declined last time?’ ‘I had not,’ she said. ‘But if I had ’twould have been all the same.’ ‘And ’tis not because of any soreness from my slighting you years ago?’ ‘No. That soreness is long past.’ ‘Ah—then you despise me, Sally?’ ‘No,’ she slowly answered. ‘I don’t altogether despise you. I don’t think you quite such a hero as I once did—that’s all. The truth is, I am happy enough as I am; and I don’t mean to marry at all. Now, may _I_ ask a favour, sir?’ She spoke with an ineffable charm, which, whenever he thought of it, made him curse his loss of her as long as he lived. ‘To any extent.’ ‘Please do not put this question to me any more. Friends as long as you like, but lovers and married never.’ ‘I never will,’ said Darton. ‘Not if I live a hundred years.’ And he never did. That he had worn out his welcome in her heart was only too plain.