And a bit after the pheasant season finished, John Meadows heard that the master reckoned ’twas time his head-keeper made a dignified retirement and let a younger man—­William Parsloe in fact—­take his place.

But while John felt sorry for himself in this matter, yet was far too sane and common-sensible to resent it, another wondrous thing fell out, and Harry Wade got in a rare sort of fix that promised more fret and strain than all his other adventures put together.  For, along of one thing and another, though the true details never reached but two ears, he was up against a new and tremendous experience and from being a heart-whole man with no great admiration on the women, he felt a wakening and a stir and knew ’twas love.

For Millicent Meadows he went through the usual torments, and his case weren’t bettered by William Parsloe neither, because when he confessed to the man, who had got to be his friend, that Millicent was a piece very much out of the common, Bill told him that he weren’t the first by many as had thought the same.

“But she’s not for men,” said Parsloe.  “All sorts have offered, and good ’uns, including myself I may tell you in confidence; but the man ain’t born to win Millicent Meadows.”

However, Wade, he set to it, and after a lot of patient skirmishing he began to see faint signs of hope.  He held in, however, so powerful as his nature would let him until the signs heartened the man for a dash at last, and ’twas by Hound’s Pool on a May day with the bluebells beside the water, and the cherry blossom tasselling over their heads—­that he told the girl she was the light of his spring and the breath of his life.

And she just put her hand in his’n and looked up in his face and took him without any fuss whatever.

Not for a week, however, till he felt safe in his promised state, did Harry ever open out his dark secrets to her; but then, for her ears only, out it came.

“You mind that fatal night?” he asked; and they were beside the Pool again, for she loved it now, because ’twas there he begged her to marry him.

“Ess fay and I do, but I don’t hate the Pool no more—­not after you told me you loved me there,” said Millicent.

“’Twas I that saved you,” he confessed.  “At a loose end and for a bit of a lark—­just sport, you understand, not wickedness—­I done a bit of poaching and picked off a good few birds, I fear.”

She looked at him round-eyed.

“You wretch!” she cried; but his arms were close about her, and she was powerless.

“Oh, yes.  And my great dog it was as I kept hid on a chain by day.  And when he frightened you into the water that night, I was behind him and had you out again and in my arms in half a second.  And then I carried you away from the river, and when I held you in my arms I knew you’d be my wife or nobody would.”

“Thank the watching Lord ’twas you!” she gasped.