“What will, then, Charley?” said Eustacia in a disappointed tone.

“You know what you forbade me at the Maypoling, miss,” murmured the lad, without looking at her, and still stroking the firedog’s head.

“Yes,” said Eustacia, with a little more hauteur.  “You wanted to join hands with me in the ring, if I recollect?”

“Half an hour of that, and I’ll agree, miss.”

Eustacia regarded the youth steadfastly.  He was three years younger than herself, but apparently not backward for his age.  “Half an hour of what?” she said, though she guessed what.

“Holding your hand in mine.”

She was silent.  “Make it a quarter of an hour,” she said.

“Yes, Miss Eustacia—­I will, if I may kiss it too.  A quarter of an hour.  And I’ll swear to do the best I can to let you take my place without anybody knowing.  Don’t you think somebody might know your tongue, miss?”

“It is possible.  But I will put a pebble in my mouth to make is less likely.  Very well; you shall be allowed to have my hand as soon as you bring the dress and your sword and staff.  I don’t want you any longer now.”

Charley departed, and Eustacia felt more and more interest in life.  Here was something to do:  here was some one to see, and a charmingly adventurous way to see him.  “Ah,” she said to herself, “want of an object to live for—­that’s all is the matter with me!”

Eustacia’s manner was as a rule of a slumberous sort, her passions being of the massive rather than the vivacious kind.  But when aroused she would make a dash which, just for the time, was not unlike the move of a naturally lively person.

On the question of recognition she was somewhat indifferent.  By the acting lads themselves she was not likely to be known.  With the guests who might be assembled she was hardly so secure.  Yet detection, after all, would be no such dreadful thing.  The fact only could be detected, her true motive never.  It would be instantly set down as the passing freak of a girl whose ways were already considered singular.  That she was doing for an earnest reason what would most naturally be done in jest was at any rate a safe secret.

The next evening Eustacia stood punctually at the fuel-house door, waiting for the dusk which was to bring Charley with the trappings.  Her grandfather was at home tonight, and she would be unable to ask her confederate indoors.

He appeared on the dark ridge of heathland, like a fly on a negro, bearing the articles with him, and came up breathless with his walk.

“Here are the things,” he whispered, placing them upon the threshold.  “And now, Miss Eustacia—­”

“The payment.  It is quite ready.  I am as good as my word.”

She leant against the door-post, and gave him her hand.  Charley took it in both his own with a tenderness beyond description, unless it was like that of a child holding a captured sparrow.