Miss Rose accepted her lot in a spirit of dutiful resignation, and on Saturday morning after her father’s admonition not to forget that the coach left the White Swan at two sharp, set off to pay a few farewell visits.  By half-past twelve she had finished, and Lawyer Quince becoming conscious of a shadow on his work looked up to see her standing before the window.  He replied to a bewitching smile with a short nod and became intent upon his work again.

For a short time Celia lingered, then to his astonishment she opened the gate and walked past the side of the house into the garden.  With growing astonishment he observed her enter his tool-shed and close the door behind her.

For ten minutes he worked on and then, curiosity getting the better of him, he walked slowly to the tool-shed and, opening the door a little way, peeped in.  It was a small shed, crowded with agricultural implements.  The floor was occupied by an upturned wheelbarrow, and sitting on the barrow, with her soft cheek leaning against the wall, sat Miss Rose fast asleep.  Mr. Quince coughed several times, each cough being louder than the last, and then, treading softly, was about to return to the workshop when the girl stirred and muttered in her sleep.  At first she was unintelligible, then he distinctly caught the words “idiot” and “blockhead.”

“She’s dreaming of somebody,” said Mr. Quince to himself with conviction.

“Wonder who it is?”

“Can’t see—­a thing—­under—­his—­nose,” murmured the fair sleeper.

“Celia!” said Mr. Quince, sharply.  “Celia!”

He took a hoe from the wall and prodded her gently with the handle.  A singularly vicious expression marred the soft features, but that was all.

“Ce-lia!” said the shoemaker, who feared sun-stroke.

“Fancy if he—­had—­a moment’s common sense,” murmured Celia, drowsily, “and locked—­the door.”

Lawyer Quince dropped the hoe with a clatter and stood regarding her open-mouthed.  He was a careful man with his property, and the stout door boasted a good lock.  He sped to the house on tip-toe, and taking the key from its nail on the kitchen dresser returned to the shed, and after another puzzled glance at the sleeping girl locked her in.

For half an hour he sat in silent enjoyment of the situation—­enjoyment which would have been increased if he could have seen Mr. Rose standing at the gate of Holly Farm, casting anxious glances up and down the road.  Celia’s luggage had gone down to the White Swan, and an excellent cold luncheon was awaiting her attention in the living-room.

Half-past one came and no Celia, and five minutes later two farm labourers and a boy lumbered off in different directions in search of the missing girl, with instructions that she was to go straight to the White Swan to meet the coach.  The farmer himself walked down to the inn, turning over in his mind a heated lecture composed for the occasion, but the coach came and, after a cheerful bustle and the consumption of sundry mugs of beer, sped on its way again.