Tatham chuckled happily as he thought of it.

“She shall sit next the old boy at dinner, and she shall talk to him just as much as she jolly well pleases.  And of course he’ll take to her, and offer to give her lessons—­or paint her—­or something.  Then we can get her over—­lots of times!”

Still dallying with these simple plans, Tatham arrived at Green Cottage, and tying up his horse went in to deliver his note.

He had no sooner entered the little drive than he saw Lydia under a laburnum tree on the lawn.  Hat in hand, the smiling youth approached her.  She was sewing, apparently mending house-linen, which she quietly put down to greet him.  There was a book before her; a book of poetry, he thought.  She slipped it among the folds of the linen.

He could not flatter himself that his appearance disturbed her composure in the least.  She was evidently glad to see him; she was gratefully sure that they would all be delighted to dine with Lady Tatham on the day named; she came with him to the gate, and admired his horse.  But as to any flutter of hand or eye; any consciousness in her, answering to the eager feeling in him—­he knew very well there was nothing of the kind.  Never mind!  There was an inner voice in him that kept reassuring him all the time; telling him to be patient; to go at it steadily.  There was no other fellow in the way, anyhow!  He had a joyous sense of all the opportunities to come, the summer days, the open country, the resources of Duddon.

With his hand on his horse’s neck, and loath to ride away, he told her that he was on his way to the Tower to call on Faversham.

“Oh, but we’re coming too, mother and I!” she said, in surprise.  “Mr. Faversham sent us a note.  I don’t believe he ought to have two sets of visitors just yet.”

Tatham too was surprised.  “How on earth Faversham is able to entertain anybody, I can’t think!  Undershaw told me last week he must get him away, as soon as possible, into decent quarters.  He doesn’t get on very fast.”

“He’s been awfully ill!” said Lydia, with a soft concern in her voice, which made the splendid young fellow beside her envious at once of the invalid.  “Well, good-bye! for the moment.  We have ordered the pony in half an hour.”

“You’ll see a queer place; the piggery that old fellow lives in!  You didn’t know Faversham—­I think you said—­before that day of the accident?” He looked down on her from the saddle.

“Not the least.  I feel a horrid pang sometimes that I didn’t warn him of that hill!”

“Any decent bike ought to have managed that hill all right,” said Tatham scornfully.  “Scores of tourists go up and down it every day in the summer.”

Lydia bade him speak more respectfully of his native hills, lest they bring him also to grief.  Then she waved good-bye to him; received the lingering bow and eager look, which betrayed the youth; thought of “young Harry with his beaver on,” as she watched the disappearing horseman, and went back for a while to her needlework and cogitation.