A woman’s figure was moving among the rocks above him.  The next moment, by the trimming of crimson velvet on her hat, he had recognized her.  He mounted the slope with springing strides, wondering the while how it was she came to be there, that she was not in church playing the organ at afternoon service.

Before she was aware of his approach, he was beside her.

‘I thought ye’d be in church—­’ he began.

She started:  then, gradually regaining her composure, answered, weakly smiling: 

‘Mr. Jenkinson, the new schoolmaster, wanted to try the organ.’

He came towards her impulsively:  she saw the odd flickers in his eyes as she stepped back in dismay.

‘Nay, but I will na harm ye,’ he said.  ’Only I reckon what ’tis a special turn o’ Providence, meetin’ wi’ ye oop here.  I reckon what ye’ll hev t’ give me a square answer noo.  Ye canna dilly-dally everlastingly.’

He spoke almost brutally; and she stood, white and gasping, staring at him with large, frightened eyes.  The sheep-walk was but a tiny threadlike track:  the slope of the shingle on either side was very steep:  below them lay the valley; distant, lifeless, all blurred by the evening dusk.  She looked about her helplessly for a means of escape.

‘Miss Rosa,’ he continued, in a husky voice, ‘can ye na coom t’ think on me?  Think ye, I’ve bin waitin’ nigh upon two year for ye.  I’ve watched ye tak oop, first wi’ this young fellar, and then wi’ that, till soomtimes my heart’s fit t’ burst.  Many a day, oop on t’ fell-top, t’ thought o’ ye’s nigh driven me daft, and I’ve left my shepherdin’ jest t’ set on a cairn in t’ mist, picturin’ an’ broodin’ on yer face.  Many an evenin’ I’ve started oop t’ vicarage, wi’ t’ resolution t’ speak right oot t’ ye; but when it coomed t’ point, a sort o’ timidity seemed t’ hould me back, I was that feared t’ displease ye.  I knaw I’m na scholar, an’ mabbe ye think I’m rough-mannered.  I knaw I’ve spoken sharply to ye once or twice lately.  But it’s jest because I’m that mad wi’ love for ye:  I jest canna help myself soomtimes—­’

He waited, peering into her face.  She could see the beads of sweat above his bristling eyebrows:  the damp had settled on his sandy beard:  his horny fingers were twitching at the buttons of his black Sunday coat.

She struggled to summon a smile; but her under-lip quivered, and her large dark eyes filled slowly with tears.

And he went on: 

‘Ye’ve coom t’ mean jest everything to me.  Ef ye will na hev me, I care for nought else.  I canna speak t’ ye in phrases:  I’m jest a plain, unscholarly man:  I canna wheedle ye, wi’ cunnin’ after t’ fashion o’ toon folks.  But I can love ye wi’ all my might, an’ watch over ye, and work for ye better than any one o’ em—­’

She was crying to herself, silently, while he spoke.  He noticed nothing, however:  the twilight hid her face from him.