"There," said he again, "though indeed it is very trifling."

"Indeed, sir, it pains atrociously!" she retorted, and to bear out her words showed him her handkerchief, upon whose snow was a tiny vivid stain.

"Then perhaps," ventured Barnabas, "perhaps I'd better bathe it with this!" and he held up his dripping handkerchief.

"Nay, sir, I thank you," she answered, "keep it for your own wounds—there is a cut upon your cheek."

"A cut!" repeated Barnabas—bethinking him of the gentleman's signet ring.

"Yes, a cut, sir," she repeated, and stole a glance at him under her long lashes; "pray did your horse run away also?"

Barnabas was silent again, this time because he knew not how to answer—therefore he began rubbing at his injured cheek while she watched him—and after a while spoke.

"Sir," said she, "that is the wrong cheek."

"Then, indeed, this must be very trifling also," said Barnabas, smiling.

"Does it pain you, sir?"

"Thank you—no."

"Yet it bleeds! You say it was not your horse, sir?" she inquired, wonderfully innocent of eye.

"No, it was not my horse."

"Why, then—pray, how did it happen?"

"Happen, madam?—why, I fancy I must have—scratched myself," returned Barnabas, beginning to wring out his neckerchief.

"Scratched yourself. Ah! of course!" said she, and was silent while

Barnabas continued to wring the water from his neckerchief.

"Pray," she inquired suddenly, "do you often scratch yourself—until you bleed?—'t is surely a most distressing habit." Now glancing up suddenly, Barnabas saw her eyes were wonderfully bright for all her solemn mouth, and suspicion grew upon him.—"Did she know? Had she seen?" he wondered.

"Nevertheless, sir—my thanks are due to you—"

"For what?" he inquired quickly.

"Why—for—for—"

"For bringing you here?" he suggested, beginning to wring out his neckerchief again.

"Yes; believe me I am more than grateful for—for—"

"For what, madam?" he inquired again, looking at her now.

"For—your—kindness, sir."

"Pray, how have I been kind?—you refused my neckerchief."

Surely he was rather an unpleasant person after all, she thought, with his persistently direct eyes, and his absurdly blunt mode of questioning—and she detested answering questions.

"Sir," said she, with her dimpled chin a little higher than usual, "it is a great pity you troubled yourself about me, or spoilt your neckerchief with water."

"I thought you were hurt, you see—"

"Oh, sir, I grieve to disappoint you," said she, and rose, and indeed she gained her feet with admirable grace and dignity notwithstanding her recent fall, and the hampering folds of her habit; and now Barnabas saw that she was taller than he had thought.

"Disappoint me!" repeated Barnabas, rising also; "the words are unjust."

For a moment she stood, her head thrown back, her eyes averted disdainfully, and it was now that Barnabas first noticed the dimple in her chin, and he was yet observing it very exactly when he became aware that her haughtiness was gone again and that her eyes were looking up at him, half laughing, half shy, and of course wholly bewitching.

"Yes, I know it was," she admitted, "but oh! won't you please believe that a woman can't fall off her horse without being hurt, though it won't bleed much." Now as she spoke a distant clock began to strike and she to count the strokes, soft and mellow with distance.

"Nine!" she exclaimed with an air of tragedy—"then I shall be late for breakfast, and I'm ravenous—and gracious heavens!"

"What now, madam?"

"My hair! It's all come down—look at it!"

"I've been doing so ever since I—met you," Barnabas confessed.

"Oh, have you! Then why didn't you tell me of it—and I've lost nearly all my hairpins—and—oh dear! what will they think?"

"That it is the most beautiful hair in all the world, of course," said Barnabas. She was already busy twisting it into a shining rope, but here she paused to look up at him from under this bright nimbus, and with two hair-pins in her mouth.

"Oh!" said she again very thoughtfully, and then "Do you think so?" she inquired, speaking over and round the hairpins as it were.

"Yes," said Barnabas, steady-eyed; and immediately down came the curling lashes again, while with dexterous white fingers she began to transform the rope into a coronet.

"I'm afraid it won't hold up," she said, giving her head a tentative shake, "though, fortunately, I haven't far to go."

"How far?" asked Barnabas.

"To Annersley House, sir."

"Yes," said Barnabas, "that is very near—the glade yonder leads into the park."

"Do you know Annersley, then, sir?"

Barnabas hesitated and, having gone over the question in his mind, shook his head.

"I know of it," he answered.

"Do you know Sir George Annersley?"

Again Barnabas hesitated. As a matter of fact he knew as much of Sir George as he knew of the "great house," as it was called thereabouts, that is to say he had seen him once or twice—in the distance. But it would never do to admit as much to her, who now looked up at him with eyes of witchery as she waited for him to speak. Therefore Barnabas shook his head, and answered airily enough: