"How long has May been gone?" he asked, with studied carelessness, as he let himself into he cottage and saw a girl's figure seated on the rug before the fire.
"She's not gone! she's here, wondering why her host was so rude as to absent himself this afternoon. Since when, by the way, have you done her the honour to call her by her Christian name?" And May Webster rose from her lowly position and faced Paul with laughter in her eyes.
Paul felt himself caught at a thorough disadvantage; he was dripping with rain and covered with mud, and, confronted thus suddenly with the girl of whom his heart was full, his usual readiness of speech deserted him.
"You! you!" he stammered. "But I saw you drive by me not a quarter of an hour ago."
"And thought you had timed your homecoming so as judiciously to miss me," said May, mercilessly. "It must have been my mother; she has been spending the day at Fairfield. I told Dixon not to come back for me as I would walk home: a premature decision, for it has rained ever since, and I've been waiting for it to clear up. However, I can wait no longer; and Sally has just gone to forage out a waterproof and umbrella."
"I'll go up to the Court and tell them to send back the carriage," said Paul, preparing to depart.
"It, or rather its horse, has had more than its proper work to-day. It is probably now conveying the Bishop to the station."
"I shall come with you, then; it will be quite dark before you get home."
"I'm not afraid of it. I believe you are; there's a queer, scared look about you, as if you had seen a ghost; you still think I was in that carriage. Sally," turning to the girl who had just re-entered the room, "will you tell your brother that I don't wish him to see me home? He's very damp and miserable now."
"And at the risk of being a little damper, I will come; it's ridiculous to argue the point."
With all her boasted independence May was not sorry for Paul's escort when she stepped out into the night. The rain was descending in a steady down pour, the wind came sighing up the valley, and the river swept on its way, lapping against the bark with a dreary, sobbing sound. They walked on in silence side by side until May broke it with an impatient laugh.