There is no doubt that but for the advent of that mysterious personality into Acol village, the deep friendship which had grown in Sue’s heart for Richard Lambert would have warmed into a more passionate attachment.

But she was too young to reflect, too impulsive to analyze her feelings.  The mystery which surrounded the foreigner who lodged at the Quakeress’s cottage had made strong appeal to her idealism.

His first introduction to her notice, in the woods beyond the park gate on that cold January evening, with the moon gleaming weirdly through the branches of the elms, his solitary figure leaning against a tree, had fired her imagination and set it wildly galloping after mad fantasies.

He had scarcely spoken on that first occasion, but his silence was strangely impressive.  She made up her mind that he was singularly handsome, although she could not judge of that very clearly for he wore a heavy mustache, and a shade over one eye; but he was tall, above the average, and carried the elaborate habiliments which the Cavaliers still affected, with consummate grace and ease.  She thought, too, that the thick perruque became him very well, and his muffled voice, when he spoke, sounded singularly sweet.

Since then she had seen him constantly.  At rare intervals at first, for maidenly dignity forbade that she should seem eager to meet him.  He was ignorant of whom she was—­oh! of that she felt quite quite sure:  she always wore a dark tippet round her shoulders, and a hood to cover her head.  He seemed pleased to see her, just to hear her voice.  Obviously he was lonely and in deep trouble.

Then one night—­it was the first balmy evening after the winter frosts—­the moon was singularly bright, and the hood had fallen back from her head, just as her face was tilted upwards and her eyes glowing with enthusiasm.  Then she knew that he had learnt to love her, not through any words which he spoke, for he was silent; his face was in shadow, and he did not even touch her; therefore it was not through any of her natural senses that she guessed his love.  Yet she knew it, and her young heart was overfilled with happiness.

That evening when they parted he knelt at her feet and kissed the hem of her kirtle.  After which, when she was back again in her own little room at Acol Court, she cried for very joy.

They did not meet very often.  Once a week at most.  He had vaguely promised to tell her, some day, of his great work for the regeneration of France, which he was carrying out in loneliness and exile here in England, a work far greater and more comprehensive than that which had secured for England religious and political liberty; this work it was which made him a wanderer on the face of the earth and caused his frequent and lengthy absences from the cottage in which he lodged.

She was quite content for the moment with these vague promises:  in her heart she was evolving enchanting plans for the future, when she would be his helpmate in this great and mysterious work.