It was, with my Cousin Dolly, precisely as I had thought.  She was at first very shy indeed, going up to her chamber early in the evening, so that we had little or no music; but relaxing a little as I shewed myself friendly without being forward.  I caught her eyes on me sometimes; and she seemed to be appraising me, I thought in my stupidity, as to whether she could trust me not to make love to her; but now, as I think, for a very different reason; and I would see her sometimes as I went out of doors, peeping at me for an instant out of a window.  It was not, however, all hide and seek.  We would talk frankly and easily enough at times, and spend an hour or two together, or when her father was asleep, with the greatest friendliness; and meanwhile I, poor fool, was thinking how wise and prudent I was; and what mighty progress I was making by these crooked ways.

In Easter week we had a great happiness—­so great that it near broke me down in my resolution—­and I would to God it had—­(at least in certain moods I wish so).

I was returning along the Barkway road from a meadow where I had been to look to the new lambs, in my working dress, when I heard a horse coming behind me.  I stepped aside to let him go by, when I heard myself called.

“My man,” said the voice.  “Can you tell me where is Mr. Jermyn’s house?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.  “I am going there myself.”

He was a grave-looking gentleman, very dark; and as I looked at him I remembered him; but I could see he did not remember me, and no wonder, for he had only seen me once, on a very agitating occasion, for a short while.  He was riding a very good horse, which was going lame, but without any servant, and he had his valise strapped on the crupper.  In appearance he was a country-squire on his way to town.  I determined to give him a surprise as we went along.

“I hope you are well, Mr. Hamerton,” I said.

He gave a great start at that, and looked at me closely.

“I do not remember you,” he said.  “And why do you call me Mr. Hamerton?”

“I knew that is not the name you were usually known by, father.  Would you be easier if I called you Mr. Young?”

“I give it up,” he said.  “Who are you, sir?”

“Do you remember a young man,” I said, “a year and a half ago, who came into Mr. Chiffinch’s inner parlour on a certain occasion?  You were sitting near His Royal Highness; His Majesty was at the end of the table; and by you was Father Bedingfeld who died in prison in December.”

He smiled at me.

“I remember everything except the young man,” he said.  “So you are he.  And what is your name, sir?”

I told him.

“I am Mr. Jermyn’s cousin,” I said.  “And I have been looking after his lambs for him.  I would there was some spiritual shepherd who would look after us.  We have not heard mass since Christmas.” (For we had ridden over to Standon on that day.)