A thin puff of rain floated against her face as the door opened, and a tall soldier stepped out of the darkness into the glow of the warm kitchen.

“Well, this here’s a queer home-coming.  Why, hullo, ’Lizabeth—­with a pistol in your hand, too!  Do you shoot the fatted calf in these parts now?  What’s the meaning of it?”

The overcoat of cinder grey that covered his scarlet tunic was powdered with beads of moisture; his black moustaches were beaded also; his face was damp, and smeared with the dye that trickled from his sodden cap.  As he stood there and shook himself, the rain ran down and formed small pools upon the slates around his muddy boots.

He was a handsome fellow, in a florid, animal fashion; well-set, with black curls, dark eyes that yet contrived to be exceedingly shallow, and as sanguine a pair of cheeks as one could wish to see.  It seemed to ’Lizabeth that the red of his complexion had deepened since she saw him last, while the white had taken a tinge of yellow, reminding her of the prize beef at the Christmas market last week.  Somehow she could find nothing to say.

“The old man’s in bed, I reckon.  I saw the light in his window.”

“You’ve had a wet tramp of it,” was all she found to reply, though aware that the speech was inconsequent and trivial.

“Damnably.  Left the coach at Fiddler’s Cross, and trudged down across the fields.  We were soaked enough on the coach, though, and couldn’t get much worse.”

“We?”

“Why, you don’t suppose I was the only passenger by the coach, eh?” he put in quickly.

“No, I forgot.”

There was an awkward silence, and William’s eyes travelled round the kitchen till they lit on the kettle standing by the hearthstone.  “Got any rum in the cupboard?” While she was getting it out, he took off his cap and great-coat, hung them up behind the door, and, pulling the small table close to the fire, sat beside it, toasting his knees.  ’Lizabeth set bottle and glass before him, and stood watching as he mixed the stuff.

“So you’re only a private.”

William set down the kettle with some violence.

“You still keep a cursedly rough tongue, I notice.”

“An’ you’ve been a soldier five year.  I reckoned you’d be a sergeant at least,” she pursued simply, with her eyes on his undecorated sleeve.

William took a gulp.

“How do you know I’ve not been a sergeant?”

“Then you’ve been degraded.  I’m main sorry for that.”

“Look here, you hush up!  Damn it! there’s girls enough have fancied this coat, though it ain’t but a private’s; and that’s enough for you, I take it.”

“It’s handsome.”

“There, that’ll do.  I do believe you’re spiteful because I didn’t offer to kiss you when I came in.  Here, Cousin ’Lizabeth,” he exclaimed, starting up, “I’ll be sworn for all your tongue you’re the prettiest maid I’ve seen this five year.  Give me a kiss.”