After the abortive intrusion of the hounds there were still other attempts at gaiety.  The village began somehow to look brisk; the ancient stagnation passed away, and grey cottagers spoke fondly of the old times.

Throughout all this liveliness Mr. Casely kept to the mode of living he had adopted ever since the night when he made allusions to Mr. Ellington’s windpipe.  He went about his work as usual, but he spoke to no one.  He dropped going to church, and he never, as in past times, drove his cart into Branspath.  Mary had been sent to a relation’s in the South.  Her father would not mention her name, and his family and neighbours were particularly careful to say nothing about the girl who had gone.  Sometimes Casely would think about his pet, but he spared words.  Once a neighbour stepped in unawares, and found the strong man stretched with his face on the settle, and sobbing hard; but he sat up when he found he was not alone, spoke an oath or two, and was ready for everyday chat.

In the autumn Casely happened to be out on the green, watching the women spreading the nets to dry.  It was a lovely day, and the larks were singing wildly one against the other far up toward the sky.  Suddenly the chattering women grew quiet.  A slender young lady, daintily dressed, walked gracefully along the road that bordered the green.  There was silence while she passed, save for the larks’ sweet jargoning.  As soon as the neat tall figure was sufficiently far off, one of the women said—­

“Who’s that?”

Another made answer within Casely’s hearing—­

“Oh, it’s the young Squire’s lass.  She’s a daughter of some big man away down South.  They’re to be married come the spring o’ the year.”

Casely watched the graceful young lady over the crest of the next rise, then turned homeward and sat down silent as usual.  Now it happened that the lady when she passed the gossiping fishers was going to meet young Ellington.  That gentleman had lately persuaded his grandfather to buy a light boat for the better navigation of a heavy dull stream that ran deep and silent round the southerly border of the home farm, and the individual undutifully referred to as “the young Squire’s lass” was about to trust herself in the new craft with her lover.  Ellington had everything ready when the girl reached the stream.  When she had stepped aboard, he said—­

“You called at Marchman’s for Aunt Esther and Miss Marshall?”

“Yes!  But they teased.  They said they were having such an interesting gossip with poor old Hannah, they would prefer following me.  They thought we might employ our time till they came up.”

“It’s just as well.  I’m sure, if you don’t mind, I don’t.  Which way shall we go?”

“I cannot tell.  The stream is so slack I could hardly guess where the sea lay if I didn’t know.”

“Well, now, I’ll tell you what I propose doing.  We can slip over the bar as the wind is just now.  There’s always a little rough water just where the burn joins the sea, but when we get over that the sea outside is quite smooth.  Then we can sail, and save the bore of pulling.”