Strafford's heart leapt at sight of her with a sudden pleasure which puzzled him; for he would not have admitted to himself that he had walked in this direction in the hope, on the chance, of meeting her.
"Good-morning," he said, in his direct fashion, raising his cap. "I am very fortunate to meet you. I hope Mr. Heron is no worse for—is not ill?"
"No," she said in her low, clear voice. "My father is quite well; he is just as he usually is this morning."
"I am very glad," said Stafford. He stood close beside the horse and looked up at her; and for the first time in his life he was trying to keep the expression of admiration out of his eyes; the expression which he knew most women welcomed, but which, somehow or other, he felt this strange girl would resent. "I was afraid he would be upset. I am afraid you were frightened last night—it was enough to alarm, to startle anyone. What a splendid morning!" he went on, quickly, as if he did not want to remind her of the affair. "What a libel it is to say that it is always raining here! I've never seen so brilliant a sunshine or such colours: don't wonder that the artists rave about the place and are never tired of painting it."
She waited until he had finished, her eyes downcast, as if she knew why he had turned from the subject, then she raised them and looked at him with her direct gaze.
"I am glad I have met you," she said. "I wanted to thank you for your kindness last night—"
"Oh, but—" Stafford tried to break in, but she went on slowly, as if he had not spoken.
—"I was—frightened: it was sudden, so unexpected. My father had never done it before—that I know of—and he looked"—her voice broke for a moment—"so strange, so ghost-like. I thought at first that it was the Heron ghost which, they say, haunts the dale, though I have never seen it."
A faint smile curved her lips and shone in her eyes, and Stafford was so fascinated by the sudden gleam of girlishness that he had to bend and pat Bess, who was planting dusty impression on his trousers in her frantic efforts to gain his attention.
"I did nothing; in fact, as I walked away I was fuming because I couldn't help you—couldn't do more."
"You did help me," she said, gravely; then she looked across the lake to Sir Stephen's "little place." "I was admiring that new house. Don't you think it is very beautiful, rising so white and gracefully above the lake?"
"Ye-es," said Stafford, "Rather—conspicuous, though, isn't it?"
She laughed suddenly, and Stafford asked, with surprise: "Why did you laugh?"
"Oh, I was thinking of my father," she said, with a delicious frankness; "he was quite angry about it this morning. It seems that it is built on our land—or what was ours—and he dislikes the idea of anyone building at Bryndermere."
"So should I," said Stafford, laconically.
"And besides," she went on, her eyes fixed on the great white building, so that she did not see his embarrassment, "my father does not like the man who built it. He thinks that he got the land unfairly; and he—my father—calls him all sorts of hard names."
Stafford bit his lips, and his face wore the expression which came into it when he was facing an ugly jump. He would have shirked this one if he could, but it had to be faced, so he rushed it.
"I'm sorry," he said. "My father built it."
She did not start, but she turned her head and looked at him, with a sudden coldness in the glorious eyes.
"Your father—Sir Stephen Orme? Then you are—"
"I am his son, yes; my name is Stafford Orme."
She gathered her reins up, as if no comment, no remark were necessary, but Stafford could not let her go, could not part from her like that.
"I'm sorry to hear that Mr. Heron has some cause of complaint, some grievance against my father. I can understand his not liking the house; to tell you the truth, I don't care for it much myself. Yes; I can understand Mr. Heron's annoyance; I suppose he can see it from your house?"
"No," she said, simply. "This is the only part of our land from which it can be seen, and my father never comes here: never leaves the grounds, the garden." She paused a moment. "I don't know why you should mind—except that I said that the land was got unfairly—I wish I had not said that."
Stafford coloured.
"So do I," he said; "but I hope it isn't true. There may be some mistake. I don't know anything about my father's affairs—I haven't seen him for years; I am almost a stranger to him."
She listened with a grave face, then she touched the big chestnut; but
Stafford, almost unconsciously, laid his hand on the rein nearest him.
His mouth and chin expressed the determination which now and again
surprised even his most intimate friends.
"Miss Heron, I'm afraid—" He paused, and she waited, her eyes downcast and fixed on the horse's ears.
"I scarcely know how to put what I want to say," he said. "I'm rather bad at explaining myself; but I—well, I hope you won't feel angry with me because of the house, because of anything that has passed between your father and mine—Of course I stand by him; but—well, I didn't build the confounded place—I beg your pardon! but I think it's rather hard that you should cut me—oh, I can see by your face that you mean to do it!—that you should regard me as a kind of enemy because—"
The usually fluent Stafford stopped helplessly as the beautiful eyes turned slowly upon him with a slight look of wonder in them.
"Why should you mind?" she said, with almost childish innocence. "You do not know me; we only met yesterday—we are not friends—Oh I am not forgetting your kindness last night; oh, no!—but what can it matter to you?"
In another woman Stafford would have suspected the question of coquetry, of a desire to fish for the inevitable response; but looking in those clear, guileless eyes, he could not entertain any such suspicion.
"I beg your pardon; but it does matter very much," he retorted. "In the first place, a man does not like being cut by a lady; and in the next, we shall be neighbours—I'm going to stay there—" he nodded grimly at the beautiful "little place."
"Neighbours?" she said, half absently. "It is farther off than you think; and, besides, we know no one. We have no neighbours in that sense—or friends. My father does not like to see anyone; we live quite alone—"
"So I've heard—" He stopped and bit his lip; but she did not seem to have noticed his interruption.
—"So that even if my father did not object to the house or—or—"
"My father," said Stafford with a smile.
A smile answered his candour.
"It would be all the same. And why should it matter to you? You have a great many friends, no doubt—and we should not be likely to meet."
"Oh, yes, we should!" he said, with the dogged kind of insistence which also sometimes surprised his friends. "I was going to avail myself of your permission, and fish the stream—but, of course, I can't do that now."
"No—I suppose not," she assented. "But we should be sure to meet on the road—I should be riding—walking."
"But not on this side often," she argued.
A faint, very faint colour had stolen into the clear pallor of her cheek, her eyes were downcast. She was honestly surprised, and, yes, a little pleased that he should protest against the close of their acquaintance; pleased, though why, she could not have told; for it did not seem to matter.
"Oh, yes, I should," he retorted. "It's very pretty this side, and—See here, Miss Heron." He drew a little nearer and looked up at her with something like a frown in his