There was no wind and the frost was not keen.  Gray clouds trailed across the sky that was touched with yellow in the west, and soft, elusive lights played about the dale.  Patches of snow on the fellsides gleamed and faded; mossy belts glowed vivid green, red berries in the hedgerows shone among withered leaves and fern, and then the light passed on and left the valley dim.  Something in its calm beauty reacted on the girl and made her thoughtful.  She loved the dale and felt that she might be happy there if it were not for her father’s poverty and overbearing temperament.

After all, they were not really poor; they had enough to satisfy their needs.  Their clinging to out-of-date traditions caused the strain.  One gained nothing by pretending to be rich and important; there was no logical reason for trying to live like one’s ancestors, and the effort cost the Osborns much.  It meant stern private economy, public ostentation, and many small deceits.  Grace was getting tired of this pretense; she wanted something simpler and dignified.  For the most part, the dalesfolk looked happy and she had come to envy them.  They had their troubles, but they were troubles all mankind must bear, and they had joys one did not properly value at Tarnside:  human fellowship and sympathy, and freedom to follow their bent.  A shepherd’s daughter, for example, could marry whom she liked and was not forced to accept a husband who had wealth enough to satisfy her parents.

Grace blushed as she thought of Alan Thorn and contrasted him with Kit.  She did not want to marry yet; but perhaps, if Kit were not a working farmer’s son—­She pulled herself up, with a smile, for it looked as if she had not broken free from the family traditions.  After all, it did not matter if Kit were a farmer’s son.  He was honest and generous; he had a well-modeled figure, bright eyes, and a clean brown skin.  But since Kit was not her lover, she was indulging in idle sentiment; and then she admitted that he might love her, although she did not yet love him.  Indeed, if she must be honest, the thing was possible—­she had seen his face brighten and remarked his satisfaction when they met.

Then she stopped abruptly as she saw him coming down the road.  There was a path across a field close by, but it would be admitting too much if she tried to avoid him, and she went on.  Kit came up, dressed in rough working clothes, with muddy leggings, and a hedge stick in his hand.  Two dogs ran before him and it looked as if he had been driving sheep.  Grace was very calm when he took off his cap and he thought the hint of stateliness he sometimes noted was rather marked.  It did not daunt him; he, felt it was proper Grace should look like that.  She noted that he was hot and breathless.

“I saw you as I was bringing the sheep down Burton ghyll,” he said.

“Then you must have good eyes,” Grace remarked.  “It’s a long way, and I don’t wear conspicuous clothes.”