John was vexed and disappointed that she should terminate the meeting so abruptly, but consoled himself with the reflection that he was free to assume the office of instructor that very evening if he chose.

The long, toilsome day seemed slow of passing, the company of the farmer and his men more tedious even than usual, but by way of compensation Jinny’s sallies seemed to have lost their power to wound him.  It was late when, the last waggon-load having been conveyed from the field and the evening meal disposed of, he found himself free to attend to Sally’s education.  He strode along the sandy lane and across the field at a very different pace to that of the previous evening, and was almost breathless when he found himself on the top of the tall dune, gazing about with anxious eyes.  No golden head was to be seen amid the star-grass and ragwort this time; no graceful girl’s figure was outlined against the evening sky.  His heart sank, and it was in a disconsolate, uncertain voice that he called aloud: 

“Golden Sally!  Golden Sally!”

Then, starting up, as if by magic, from some unsuspected place of ambush, she came quickly towards him.  Her face was blushing and eager, her hands outstretched; and John was somehow so glad to see her after the chill disappointment of the moment before, that he not only grasped the hands, but kissed the glowing cheek.

It would be difficult to say how much Sally learnt from her zealous young instructor—­for zealous he was, sincere and earnest in his desire to improve her mind.  But he taught her one thing very rapidly and completely—­to love himself with all her undisciplined heart.  After a time she made no secret of this devotion, and John was oddly abashed and disconcerted by her occasional outbursts of affection.  He was much interested in Sally, very much attracted by her.  Her worship of him was distinctly pleasant, if a little too demonstrative.  Now and then he himself could not refrain from a tender word or a caress; but he was thoroughly convinced of her inferiority, and nothing could have been further from his thoughts than the wish to marry her.

Sally sometimes made him presents:  bags of cockles, which, on leaving her, he not infrequently dropped into a ditch; a few flowers, procured he knew not how; and once she astonished him by producing, carefully wrapped up in paper, a very handsome silk handkerchief, with a curious pattern of sprigs and flowers.

“Why, Sally,” he cried, “I scarcely like to take this.  It’s worth a deal of money I’m sure.”

“It is,” said Sally, with an odd look.  “Aye, I am fain that ye like it.  I wish I could find summat better to give ye.  Theer’s nought too good for ye.”

John, much flattered, and moreover sufficiently of a dandy to rejoice in the possession of a handsome and unusual article of wearing apparel, thanked her warmly, and assured her that he would value it all the days of his life.