As she entered the iron gates at the lower end of the park, and glanced at the interwoven cipher and crest of the Amelyns still above, she was conscious that the wind was blowing more chill, and that a few clouds had gathered.  As she walked on down the long winding avenue, the sky became overcast, and, in one of those strange contrasts of the English climate, the glory of the whole day went out with the sunshine.  The woods suddenly became wrinkled and gray, the distant hills sombre, the very English turf beneath her feet grew brown; a mile and a half away, through the opening of the trees, the west part of the Priory looked a crumbling, ivy-eaten ruin.  A few drops of rain fell.  She hurried on.  Suddenly she remembered that the avenue made a long circuit before approaching the house, and that its lower end, where she was walking, was but a fringe of the park.  Consequently there must be a short cut across some fields and farm buildings to the back of the park and the Priory.  She at once diverged to the right, presently found a low fence, which she clambered over, and again found a footpath which led to a stile.  Crossing that, she could see the footpath now led directly to the Priory,—­now a grim and austere looking pile in the suddenly dejected landscape,—­and that it was probably used only by the servants and farmers.  A gust of wind brought some swift needles of rain to her cheek; she could see the sad hills beyond the Priory already veiling their faces; she gathered her skirts and ran.  The next field was a long one, but beside the further stile was a small clump of trees, the only ones between her and the park.  Hurrying on to that shelter, she saw that the stile was already occupied by a tall but bent figure, holding a long stick in his hand, which gave him the appearance, against the horizon, of the figure of Time leaning on his scythe.  As she came nearer she saw it was, indeed, an old man, half resting on his rake.  He was very rugged and weather-beaten, and although near the shelter of the trees, apparently unmindful of the rain that was falling on his bald head, and the limp cap he was holding uselessly in one hand.  He was staring at her, yet apparently unconscious of her presence.  A sudden instinct came upon her—­it was “Debs”!

She went directly up to him, and with that frank common sense which ordinarily distinguished her, took his cap from his hand and put it on his head, grasped his arm firmly, and led him to the shelter of the tree.  Then she wiped the raindrops from his face with her handkerchief, shook out her own dress and her wet parasol, and, propping her companion against the tree, said:—­

“There, Mr. Debs!  I’ve heard of people who didn’t know enough to come in when it rained, but I never met one before.”

The old man started, lifted his hairy, sinewy arm, bared to the elbow, and wiped his bare throat with the dry side of it.  Then a look of intelligence—­albeit half aggressive—­came into his face.  “Wheer beest tha going?” he asked.