She eyed him gravely and critically.

“He’s nice-looking,” she said, “but I don’t like him so well as the one you rode yesterday.  Didn’t I see him slip just now, coming up the hill?”

“Did he?” said Stafford.  “I didn’t notice.  To tell you the truth, I was so delighted at seeing you that I don’t think I should have noticed if he had tumbled on his nose.”

“Oh, it wasn’t much of a slip,” she said, quickly, to cover her slight confusion at his candid confession.  “Shall we go down to the sheep first?”

“Anywhere you like,” he assented, brightly.  “Remember, I’m your pupil.”

She glanced at him and smiled.

“A very big pupil.”

“But a very humble one,” he said.  “I’m afraid you’ll add, ’a very stupid one,’ before long.”

As they rode down hill, Stafford stole a look at her unobserved.  Ever since he had left her yesterday her face had haunted him, even while Maude Falconer, in all her war paint and sparkling with jewels, had been singing, even in the silent watches of the night, when—­strange thing for him!—­he had awakened from a dream of her; he had recalled the exquisitely lovely face with its grave yet girlish eyes, and he felt now, with a thrill, that she was even more lovely than she had been in his thoughts and his dreams; that the nameless charm which had haunted him was stronger, more subtle, than even his fancy had painted it.  He noticed the touch of colour just below her white slender column of a neck, and wondered why no other woman had ever thought of wearing a crimson tie with her habit.

“What a grand morning,” he said.  “I don’t think I ever saw a morning like this, so clear and bright; those hills there look as though they were quite near.”

“It’s the rain,” she explained.  “It seems to wash the atmosphere.  My father says there is only one other place which has this particular clearness and brightness after rain:  and that’s Ireland.  There are the sheep.  Now,” she smiled, “do you know how to count them?”

He stared at her.

“You begin at number one, I suppose,” he said.

She smiled.

“But where is number one?”

She spoke to Donald in a low voice, then the collie began to work the sheep up into a heap; Bess assisting with her sharp yap.

“Now they’re ready,” said Ida.  “You must be quick.”

Stafford began to count, but the sheep moved and the ones he had counted got mixed up with the others, and he began again and yet again, until he turned with a puzzled and furrowed brow.

“I can’t count them,” he said.  “They won’t keep still for a single moment.”

She turned to him with a smile.

“There are fifty-two,” she said.

“Do you mean to say that you’ve counted them already?” he exclaimed.

“Yes; I could have counted them twice over by this time.  Now, begin again, and begin from the farthest row; and remember when you come to a black one.  Keep your eye on that one and start again front him.  It’s quite easy when you know how.”  He began again.