She regarded it thoughtfully for a moment, then returned to the road, and as she did so she saw a tall figure coming towards her.

For an instant the colour rose to her face, but for an instant only, and before Stafford had reached her, she was as pale, as calm as usual.  She noticed that he was dressed in a serge suit, noticed vaguely how well it sat upon him, that his gait had a peculiar ease and grace which the men of the dale lacked, that his handsome face flushed lightly as he saw her; but she gave no sign of these quick apprehensions, and sat cold and sphinx-like waiting for him.

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?”