It was along the broadest of these paths that Arthur Donnithorne passed, under an avenue of limes and beeches.  It was a still afternoon—­the golden light was lingering languidly among the upper boughs, only glancing down here and there on the purple pathway and its edge of faintly sprinkled moss:  an afternoon in which destiny disguises her cold awful face behind a hazy radiant veil, encloses us in warm downy wings, and poisons us with violet-scented breath.  Arthur strolled along carelessly, with a book under his arm, but not looking on the ground as meditative men are apt to do; his eyes would fix themselves on the distant bend in the road round which a little figure must surely appear before long.  Ah!  There she comes.  First a bright patch of colour, like a tropic bird among the boughs; then a tripping figure, with a round hat on, and a small basket under her arm; then a deep-blushing, almost frightened, but bright-smiling girl, making her curtsy with a fluttered yet happy glance, as Arthur came up to her.  If Arthur had had time to think at all, he would have thought it strange that he should feel fluttered too, be conscious of blushing too—­in fact, look and feel as foolish as if he had been taken by surprise instead of meeting just what he expected.  Poor things!  It was a pity they were not in that golden age of childhood when they would have stood face to face, eyeing each other with timid liking, then given each other a little butterfly kiss, and toddled off to play together.  Arthur would have gone home to his silk-curtained cot, and Hetty to her home-spun pillow, and both would have slept without dreams, and to-morrow would have been a life hardly conscious of a yesterday.

Arthur turned round and walked by Hetty’s side without giving a reason.  They were alone together for the first time.  What an overpowering presence that first privacy is!  He actually dared not look at this little butter-maker for the first minute or two.  As for Hetty, her feet rested on a cloud, and she was borne along by warm zephyrs; she had forgotten her rose-coloured ribbons; she was no more conscious of her limbs than if her childish soul had passed into a water-lily, resting on a liquid bed and warmed by the midsummer sun-beams.  It may seem a contradiction, but Arthur gathered a certain carelessness and confidence from his timidity:  it was an entirely different state of mind from what he had expected in such a meeting with Hetty; and full as he was of vague feeling, there was room, in those moments of silence, for the thought that his previous debates and scruples were needless.

“You are quite right to choose this way of coming to the Chase,” he said at last, looking down at Hetty; “it is so much prettier as well as shorter than coming by either of the lodges.”

“Yes, sir,” Hetty answered, with a tremulous, almost whispering voice.  She didn’t know one bit how to speak to a gentleman like Mr. Arthur, and her very vanity made her more coy of speech.