As this had been more or less the course of events every night since the season’s lambing had set in, the boy was not at all surprised at the charge, and amused himself for some time by lighting straws at the stove.  He then went out to the ewes and new-born lambs, re-entered, sat down, and finally fell asleep.  This was his customary manner of performing his watch, for though special permission for naps had this week been accorded, he had, as a matter of fact, done the same thing on every preceding night, sleeping often till awakened by a smack on the shoulder at three or four in the morning from the crook-stem of the old man.

It might have been about eleven o’clock when he awoke.  He was so surprised at awaking without, apparently, being called or struck, that on second thoughts he assumed that somebody must have called him in spite of appearances, and looked out of the hut window towards the sheep.  They all lay as quiet as when he had visited them, very little bleating being audible, and no human soul disturbing the scene.  He next looked from the opposite window, and here the case was different.  The frost-facets glistened under the moon as before; an occasional furze bush showed as a dark spot on the same; and in the foreground stood the ghostly form of the trilithon.  But in front of the trilithon stood a man.

That he was not the shepherd or any one of the farm labourers was apparent in a moment’s observation,—­his dress being a dark suit, and his figure of slender build and graceful carriage.  He walked backwards and forwards in front of the trilithon.

The shepherd lad had hardly done speculating on the strangeness of the unknown’s presence here at such an hour, when he saw a second figure crossing the open sward towards the locality of the trilithon and furze-clump that screened the hut.  This second personage was a woman; and immediately on sight of her the male stranger hastened forward, meeting her just in front of the hut window.  Before she seemed to be aware of his intention he clasped her in his arms.

The lady released herself and drew back with some dignity.

‘You have come, Harriet—­bless you for it!’ he exclaimed, fervently.

‘But not for this,’ she answered, in offended accents.  And then, more good-naturedly, ’I have come, Fred, because you entreated me so!  What can have been the object of your writing such a letter?  I feared I might be doing you grievous ill by staying away.  How did you come here?’

‘I walked all the way from my father’s.’

‘Well, what is it?  How have you lived since we last met?’

’But roughly; you might have known that without asking.  I have seen many lands and many faces since I last walked these downs, but I have only thought of you.’

‘Is it only to tell me this that you have summoned me so strangely?’

A passing breeze blew away the murmur of the reply and several succeeding sentences, till the man’s voice again became audible in the words, ’Harriet—­truth between us two!  I have heard that the Duke does not treat you too well.’