“What?” he interrupted, and the quickness of the interruption broke the spell which the night had laid upon her.

“I shall tell you again how much I thank you,” she said lightly.  “I shall cross the meadow by the garden gate.  That brings me to my door.”

She gathered her skirt in her hand and crossed the pathway to the edge of the grass.

“You can’t do that,” exclaimed Dick and he was at her side.  He stooped and felt the turf.  “Even the lawn’s drenched.  Crossing the meadow you’ll be ankle-deep in dew.  You must promise never to go home across the meadow when you dine with us.”

He spoke, chiding her as if she had been a mutinous child, and with so much anxiety that she laughed.

“You see, you have become rather precious to me,” he added.

Though the month was July she that night was all April, half tears, half laughter.  The smile passed from her lips and she raised her hands to her face with the swiftness of one who has been struck.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, and she drew her hand away.

“Don’t you understand?” she asked, and answered the question herself.  “No, why should you?” She turned to him suddenly, her bosom heaving, her hands clenched.  “Do you know what place I fill here, in my own county?  Years ago, when I was a child, there was supposed to be a pig-faced woman in Great Beeding.  She lived in a small yellow cottage in the Square.  It was pointed out to strangers as one of the sights of the town.  Sometimes they were shown her shadow after dusk between the lamp and the blind.  Sometimes you might have even caught a glimpse of her slinking late at night along the dark alleys.  Well, the pig-faced woman has gone and I have taken her place.”

“No,” cried Dick.  “That’s not true.”

“It is,” she answered passionately.  “I am the curiosity.  I am the freak.  The townspeople take a pride in me, yes, just the same pride they took in her, and I find that pride more difficult to bear than all the aversion of the Pettifers.  I too slink out early in the morning or late after night has fallen.  And you”—­the passion of bitterness died out of her voice, her hands opened and hung at her sides, a smile of tenderness shone on her face—­“you come with me.  You ride with me early.  With you I learn to take no heed.  You welcome me to your house.  You speak to me as you spoke just now.”  Her voice broke and a cry of gladness escaped from her which went to Dick Hazlewood’s heart.  “Oh, you shall see me to my door.  I’ll not cross the meadow.  I’ll go round by the road.”  She stopped and drew a breath.

“I’ll tell you something.”

“What?”

“It’s rather good to be looked after.  I know.  It has never happened to me before.  Yes, it’s very good,” and she drew out the words with a low laugh of happiness.

“Stella!” he said, and at the mention of her name she caught her hands up to her heart.  “Oh, thank you!”