‘Yes—­like those sheep,’ she said aloud; and her face reddened with surprise at a discovery she made that very instant.

The flock consisted of some ninety or a hundred young stock ewes:  the surface of their fleece was as rounded and even as a cushion, and white as milk.  Now she had just observed that on the left buttock of every one of them were marked in distinct red letters the initials ‘E.  S.’

‘E.  S.’ could bring to Cytherea’s mind only one thought; but that immediately and for ever—­the name of her lover, Edward Springrove.

‘O, if it should be—!’ She interrupted her words by a resolve.  Miss Aldclyffe’s carriage at the same moment made its appearance in the drive; but Miss Aldclyffe was not her object now.  It was to ascertain to whom the sheep belonged, and to set her surmise at rest one way or the other.  She flew downstairs to Mrs. Morris.

‘Whose sheep are those in the park, Mrs. Morris?’

‘Farmer Springrove’s.’

‘What Farmer Springrove is that?’ she said quickly.

’Why, surely you know?  Your friend, Farmer Springrove, the cider-maker, and who keeps the Three Tranters Inn; who recommended you to me when he came in to see me the other day?’

Cytherea’s mother-wit suddenly warned her in the midst of her excitement that it was necessary not to betray the secret of her love.  ‘O yes,’ she said, ‘of course.’  Her thoughts had run as follows in that short interval:—­

’Farmer Springrove is Edward’s father, and his name is Edward too.

’Edward knew I was going to advertise for a situation of some kind.

’He watched the Times, and saw it, my address being attached.

’He thought it would be excellent for me to be here that we might meet whenever he came home.

’He told his father that I might be recommended as a lady’s-maid; and he knew my brother and myself.

‘His father told Mrs. Morris; Mrs. Morris told Miss Aldclyffe.’

The whole chain of incidents that drew her there was plain, and there was no such thing as chance in the matter.  It was all Edward’s doing.

The sound of a bell was heard.  Cytherea did not heed it, and still continued in her reverie.

‘That’s Miss Aldclyffe’s bell,’ said Mrs. Morris.

‘I suppose it is,’ said the young woman placidly.

‘Well, it means that you must go up to her,’ the matron continued, in a tone of surprise.

Cytherea felt a burning heat come over her, mingled with a sudden irritation at Mrs. Morris’s hint.  But the good sense which had recognized stern necessity prevailed over rebellious independence; the flush passed, and she said hastily—­

’Yes, yes; of course, I must go to her when she pulls the bell —­whether I want to or no.’