Stafford raised his hat and dismounted, and tried to speak in a casual tone; but it was difficult to conceal the subtle delight which sprang up within him at the sight of her; and he looked at the beautiful face and the slim, graceful figure in its tailor-made gown—­which, well worn as it was, seemed to him to sit upon her as no other dress had ever sat upon any other woman—­he had hard work to keep the admiration from his eyes.

“I begin to count myself a very lucky man, Miss Heron,” he said.

“Why?” she asked, her grave eyes resting on him calmly.

“Because I have chanced to meet you again.”

“It is not strange,” she said.  “I am nearly always out-of-doors.  What a beautiful horse!”

“Isn’t it!” he said, grateful for her praise.  “It is a new one—­a present from my father this morning.”

“A very valuable present!  It ought to be able to jump.”

“It is.  I put it at a bank just now, and it cleared it like a bird.  I am very glad I have met you.  I wanted to tell you something.”

She raised her eyes from the horse and waited, with the quietude, the self-possession and dignity which seemed so strange in one so young, and which, by its strangeness, fascinated him.  “I—­spoke to my father about the land:  he is innocent in the matter.  It was bought through his agent, and my father knows nothing of anything—­underhand.  I can’t tell you how glad I am that this is so.  So glad that—­I’ll make a clean breast of it—­I rode over this morning in the hope of meeting you and telling you.”

She made a little gesture of acceptance.

“I am glad, too.  Though it does not matter....”

“Ah, but it does!” he broke in.  “I should have been wretched if you had been right, and my father had been guilty of anything of the kind.  But, as a matter of fact, he isn’t capable of it—­as you’d say if you knew him.  Now, there’s no reason why we shouldn’t be friends, is there?” he added, with a suppressed eagerness.

“Oh, no,” she responded.  She glanced up at the sky.  Unnoticed by him a cloud had drifted over the Langdale pikes, as the range of high mountain is called.  “It is going to rain, and heavily.”

“And you have no umbrella, waterproof!” exclaimed Stafford.

She laughed with girlish amusement.

“Umbrella?  I don’t think I have such a thing; and this cloth is nearly waterproof; besides, I never notice the rain—­here it comes!”

It came with a vengeance; it was as if the heavens had opened and let down the bottom of a reservoir.

Stafford mechanically took off his coat.

“Put this on,” he said.  “That jacket is quite light; you’ll get wet through.”

Her face crimsoned, and she laughed a little constrainedly.

“Please put your coat on!” she said, gravely and earnestly. “You will be wet through, and you are not used to it.  There is a shed round the corner; ride there as quickly as you can.”