Farmer Waring was at first a little annoyed, but consoled himself with the reflection that blood was thicker than water.  He had no son of his own; it would be pleasant to keep Jinny still at the farm with a husband whom he could “gaffer” and break in to his own ways; so, by and by, consent was given, and John Dickinson was treated with great respect by all at the farm, and already assumed the airs of a master.  As for Sally, he had never set eyes on her since the moment of their parting.  It had once come to his ears that she and her aunt were in prison for sleeping out of doors, and, shortly after their release, she had apparently “shifted” with the rest of her family.  John thought of her as little as possible, for the mere recollection of the manner in which he had been duped, and, as he conceived it, disgraced, filled him with disgust.

There was certainly no memory of her in his mind now as he climbed the hill with Jinny on his arm.  They had only been married a few days, and his attitude towards her was still that of a lover.  They sat down on the summit of the hill, and John put his arm round Jinny’s waist.  After the manner of their kind they did not talk much, but were vaguely content with one another and their surroundings.  Jinny had some sweets in her pocket, and crunched one occasionally.  John did not care for sweets, but was thinking of having a pipe by and bye.  The larks were singing, and the little sandpipers fluttering about them, uttering their curious call.

“Here’s soombry comin’,” remarked Jinny all at once, between two sucks of a lemon drop.

John looked round without removing his arm.  He gave a start, however, as his eyes fell on the figure which was rapidly advancing towards them along the irregular crest of the hill.  Half unconsciously he released Jinny, and turned over a little on the sand to avoid meeting the direct gaze of the new-comer.

“It’s nobbut wan o’ they cocklers.  You’ve no need to mind,” remarked Jinny a little petulantly.  She had thought John’s arm in the right place.

John made no answer.  He did not dare to raise his eyes, but his ears were strained to catch the swift patter of the approaching bare feet.  If Sally should recognise him—­if, of course she must—­if she should speak, what irreparable mischief might not be made in a few moments!

The steps came nearer; there was a pause, Dickinson’s heart beating so loudly that he feared his wife must hear it.  He did not raise his eyes, but from beneath their drooped lids he caught sight of Sally’s well-known skirt.  He made no sign, however, and after what seemed an interminable time the skirt brushed past, actually touching him, and the soft pat pat sounded a little farther off.  Even then John did not raise his eyes, but continued to draw patterns on the sand with his forefinger.  The silence seemed to him unbearable, and yet he did not dare to break it.  He could hear Jinny crunching her sugar-plums with irritating persistency.  Why did she not speak?