turning away, he went up the lane which smelled of the night and cowdung and young leaves.  In the straw-yard he could see the dark shapes of cattle, broken by the pale sickles of their horns, like so many thin moons, fallen ends-up.  He unlatched the farm gate stealthily.  All was dark in the house.  Muffling his footsteps, he gained the porch, and, blotted against one of the yew trees, looked up at Megan’s window.  It was open.  Was she sleeping, or lying awake perhaps, disturbed—­unhappy at his absence?  An owl hooted while he stood there peering up, and the sound seemed to fill the whole night, so quiet was all else, save for the never-ending murmur of the stream running below the orchard.  The cuckoos by day, and now the owls—­how wonderfully they voiced this troubled ecstasy within him!  And suddenly he saw her at her window, looking out.  He moved a little from the yew tree, and whispered:  “Megan!” She drew back, vanished, reappeared, leaning far down.  He stole forward on the grass patch, hit his shin against the green-painted chair, and held his breath at the sound.  The pale blur of her stretched-down arm and face did not stir; he moved the chair, and noiselessly mounted it.  By stretching up his arm he could just reach.  Her hand held the huge key of the front door, and he clasped that burning hand with the cold key in it.  He could just see her face, the glint of teeth between her lips, her tumbled hair.  She was still dressed—­poor child, sitting up for him, no doubt!  “Pretty Megan!” Her hot, roughened fingers clung to his; her face had a strange, lost look.  To have been able to reach it—­even with his hand!  The owl hooted, a scent of sweetbriar crept into his nostrils.  Then one of the farm dogs barked; her grasp relaxed, she shrank back.

“Good-night, Megan!”

“Good-night, sir!” She was gone!  With a sigh he dropped back to earth, and sitting on that chair, took off his boots.  Nothing for it but to creep in and go to bed; yet for a long while he sat unmoving, his feet chilly in the dew, drunk on the memory of her lost, half-smiling face, and the clinging grip of her burning fingers, pressing the cold key into his hand.

5

He awoke feeling as if he had eaten heavily overnight, instead of having eaten nothing.  And far off, unreal, seemed yesterday’s romance!  Yet it was a golden morning.  Full spring had burst at last—­in one night the “goldie-cups,” as the little boys called them, seemed to have made the field their own, and from his window he could see apple blossoms covering the orchard as with a rose and white quilt.  He went down almost dreading to see Megan; and yet, when not she but Mrs. Narracombe brought in his breakfast, he felt vexed and disappointed.  The woman’s quick eye and snaky neck seemed to have a new alacrity this morning.  Had she noticed?

“So you an’ the moon went walkin’ last night, Mr. Ashurst!  Did ye have your supper anywheres?”