“You have pluck; it’s a bold claim,” said Muriel in a dry tone, and then got up as Gardiner and the curate came in.

Next day Festing went to the Scar, and when Mrs. Dalton received him she put her hand gently on his arm.  She said enough, but not too much, and he was moved as he saw the moisture glisten in her eyes.

“I don’t deserve this,” he answered awkwardly.  “I found the lad in some trouble, but hadn’t to make much effort to help him out.  In fact, it was the kind of thing one does without thinking and forgets.”

“Ah,” said Mrs. Dalton, “the consequences of one’s deeds follow one, whether they’re good or bad.”  Then she gave him a very friendly smile.  “But perhaps we had better join the rest outside.”

Festing found Helen in the garden with her aunt and some friends, but the others left them by and by, and they walked alone among the flowers.  The day was calm, the light clear, and the shadow of the dark beeches on the hill crept slowly across the lawn.  Beyond a low hedge, woods, smooth pastures, and fields of ripening corn rolled back and melted into the blue shadow beneath the rugged fells.  It seemed to Festing that the peaceful sylvan landscape was touched by a glamour that centered in the fresh beauty of the girl.  Sometimes they were silent, and sometimes they talked about the mountains, but when they went back to the house he thought they had got nearer.

He returned to the Scar without Muriel a week later, and went again, and one evening stood with Helen on the terrace.  Gentle rain had fallen for most of the day, but it had stopped, and a band of pale-saffron glimmered under heavy clouds in the West.  Moisture dripped from the motionless branches and the air was hot.  The lamps had just been lighted in the house and a yellow glow streamed out.

“I’ve stayed longer than I meant and forgot my lamp,” Festing remarked.  “However, this has happened before, and I hope I haven’t stayed longer than I ought.”

“We will let you go now,” said Helen.  “For one thing, I must get up early.”

“Eight o’clock?” Festing suggested.

“No,” said Helen, smiling.  “I am always up before, but it will be six o’clock to-morrow.  I want to gather some mushrooms; they ought to be plentiful after a day like this.”

“Is six o’clock a particularly suitable time?”

“Five o’clock might be better.  If you don’t go early, you often find that somebody has been round the fields first.”

Festing asked where she expected to find the mushrooms, and when she told him said, “Very well; I’ll meet you.  It only means half an hour’s journey on your fine English road; that is, if the bicycle holds up.”

“But why do you want to gather mushrooms?”

“I don’t want to gather mushrooms.  I really want to see you where I think you belong.”

“In the fields?” Helen suggested humorously.

“No,” said Festing.  “I don’t mean in the fields.  I’ve seen you in the afternoon when the sun’s on the ripening corn and the leaves are dark and thick, but they stand for fulfilment, and that’s not your proper setting.  Once or twice I’ve stopped until evening, but you don’t belong to the dusk.”