Grace afterwards looked back with horror on the disturbed evening and sleepless night, and the morning brought her no relief.  She could not resign herself to the sacrifice she thought she would be forced to make, and her mother told her that Osborn had sent a note to Thorn and a man from London would arrive in the evening.  It was plain that Alan must be persuaded to help Gerald before the other came.

In the afternoon she walked up the dale, without an object, because it was impossible to stop in the house.  After a time she heard a dog bark and, stopping by an open gate, saw Kit swinging a scythe where an old thorn hedge threw its shadow on a field of corn.  He was cutting a path for the binder and for a minute or two she stood and watched.

Kit had taken off his jacket and his thin blue shirt harmonized with the warm yellow of the corn and the color of his sunburnt skin.  The thin material showed the fine modeling of his figure as his body followed the sweep of the gleaming scythe.  The forward stoop and recovery were marked by a rhythmic grace, and the crackle of the oat-stalks hinted at his strength.  His face was calm and Grace saw his mind dwelt upon his work.  He looked honest, clean, and virile, but she turned her head and struggled with a poignant sense of loss.  She knew now what it would cost her to let him go.

Then his dog ran up and Kit, putting down his scythe, came to the gate.  He gave her a searching glance, but she was calm again and began to talk about the harvest.  He did not seem to listen, and when she stopped said abruptly:  “You are standing in the sun.  Come into the shade; I’ll make you a seat.”

She went with him, knowing this was imprudent but unable to resist, and he threw an oat-stook against the bank and covered it with his coat.  Grace sat down and he studied her thoughtfully.

“I want you to tell me what’s the matter,” he said.

“How do you know I have anything to tell?”

“Perhaps it’s sympathy, instinct, or something like that.  Anyhow, I do know, and you may feel better when you have told me.  It’s now and then a relief to talk about one’s troubles.”

Grace was silent.  Her heart beat fast and she longed for his sympathy, and his nearness gave her a feeling of support; but she could not tell him all her trouble.  He waited with a patience that somehow indicated understanding, and she looked about.  The tall oats rippled before the wind and soft shadows trailed across the hillside.  When the white clouds passed, the dale was filled with light that jarred her hopelessness.

“As you haven’t begun yet, I’ll make a guess,” said Kit.  “Things have been going wrong at Tarnside since Gerald came home?  Well, if you can give me a few particulars, it’s possible I can help.”

His steady glance was comforting and Grace’s reserve gave way.  It was humiliating, and in a sense disloyal, to talk about Gerald, but her pride had gone and she was suddenly inspired by a strange confidence.  Perhaps Kit could help; one could trust him and he was not the man to be daunted by obstacles.