Two whole days passed without Mr. Harrod coming to the Grange. I dare say nobody else noticed it; I dare say I should not have noticed it if—if I had not thought that he would come to inquire how I did after our adventure. I was always supposed to resent being asked how I did: and here I was, quite hurt because a young man whom I had known not three months had omitted to do so.  
I took means of finding out that father and Reuben had seen him, and that he was well; and I am quite sure that I blushed with pleasure when, on the morning of the third day, mother said that she was certain the white curtains at "The Elms" must be getting soiled, and suggested that I should carry up a new pair. Harrod was becoming quite a favorite with her, or she would never have taken so much trouble for his comforts—it was no necessary duty on her part. I blushed, but I did not think that any one had noticed it.
 
When mother had left the kitchen, however, with the key of the press, I saw that two little black eyes were on me with a merry twinkle. They made me angry for a moment, I don't know why; but it was a shame to be angry with old Deb, especially when her dear old red face was so and affectionate: it was not always to be so.
 
"Well, well, I'm glad to see folk are for forgiving that poor young man for being bailiff at Knellestone," said she, with good-humored . "When I see'd what a fine masterful chap it were, I had my doubts it ud end that way."
 
"What way, if you please?" asked I, .
 
Deborah laughed. "What do you say, Joyce?" said she, turning to my sister, who was intent upon some one of the household duties that she was so glad to be back at. "They aren't quite so hard on the young man as they were for going to be, are they?"
 
"I don't quite understand," said Joyce, with genuine . "Why should mother be hard upon him? It isn't his fault if he's father's bailiff. Besides, I'm sure mother sees how useful he is to father."
 
Deb laughed louder than ever. "There, bless you, my dear," said she; "you never could see round a corner; but you've more common-sense than the lot of 'em. Why should folk owe the man a , to be sure? All the same, your mother'll spoil him afore she's done with him. Curtains, indeed! I never knowed a bailiff as needed 'em before."
 
Mother came back at that moment with the things, and I hastened to beg Joyce to accompany me up to "The Elms" after dinner. Somehow, although in my heart I knew that I was to see Trayton Harrod again, a sudden shyness had come over me at the thought of meeting him, and I wanted Joyce to be there.
 
Joyce, however, would not come; she begged off on the score of many household jobs that had got behind-hand in her absence, and mother said that I might just as well go alone and get the thing done with Dorcas's help, for that of course the bailiff was sure to be out at that time of day.
 
So alone I was forced to go. Most likely, as mother said, Mr. Harrod would be out; but I took Taff with me—a dog was better than most human beings; and with Taff at my heels I felt my self-consciousness evaporate.
 
I crossed the lane and skirted the brow of the hill behind the pine-tree lane; the mill-arms faced the village with a west wind, but the breeze had dropped since morning, and the air was heavy and thunderous. I thought I would go round by the new reservoir and see how the work was getting on. Mr. Harrod would very likely be there: it was that one among his new ventures about which at the moment he was the most excited, and the pipes were just about to be laid; even if I met him he was not obliged to know that I was going to "The Elms."
 
My heart began to beat a little as I drew near the group, but the bailiff was not there; only old Luck, the sheep-dog, towards me wagging his tail, and I knew that Reuben could not be far off. Sure enough, there he was among the men, who were just leaving off work, talking to Barnstaple.
 
"I want to know whatever he needs to come stuffing his new-fangled notions down folk's throats as have thriven on the old ones all their lives?" the latter was saying. "We don't understand such things hereabouts. We haven't been so well brought up. He'd best let us alone."
 
"Yes, I telled him so," said Reuben, , shaking his stately white head, that looked for all the world like parson's when he had his hat off; "but these young folk they must always be thinking they knows better than them as has a life's experience. But look 'ere, lads, we hain't been educated at the Agricultural College at Ashford, ye know."
 
"Blow the Agricultural College," muttered Jack Barnstaple.
 
"Yes; and so he'll say when he finds out he's none so sure about these Golding 'ops. And so master'll say when he finds as he's dropped all his money over pipes and wells as was never meant to answer."
 
"What do you mean by that, Reuben?" said I, coming up behind him. And I am sure that my cheeks were red, and my eyes black, as father would declare they were when the devil got into me. "What was never meant to answer?"
 
Reuben looked , for of course I know he had not expected me to be within hearing, and the other men began to pack up their tools for going home.
 
"Well, miss, it don't stand to reason that a man can expect water to go uphill to please him," said Reuben, with a grim smile.
 
"Water finds its own level, Reuben," explained I, sagaciously; "Mr. Harrod told me that, and father said so too. The spring is on yonder hill, and if the pipes are laid through the valley to this hill, the water is bound to come to the same level."
 
I saw smiles upon the men's faces, and Reuben shook his head.
 
"There's nothing will bring water uphill saving a pump, miss," said Jack Barnstaple, gloomily. He always said everything gloomily—it was a way he had.
 
"Nay," added Reuben, looking at me with those pathetic eyes of his that seemed to say so much that he can never have intended; "it may be a man or it may be a beast, but some one has got to draw the water uphill afore it'll come. It may run down yonder hill, but it won't run up this un of its own self. 'Tain't in nature."
 
"Well, Reuben, I advise you to keep to talking of what you can understand," said I, crossly. "I should have thought you would have had sense enough to know that Mr. Harrod must needs know better than you."
 
A faint provoking smile spread over Reuben's lips. "Young folk holds together," said he, . "'Tis in nature."
 
I flashed an angry glance at the old man, but I saw a smile—for the first time in my experience—on the face of Jack Barnstaple, who had lingered behind the others. My face went red, as red as my red hair, and I stooped down to the dog. What did the man mean? what had Deb meant that morning in the kitchen? But I raised my head .
 
"Well, I think you had just best all of you wait and see," said I, . "You'll feel great fools when you find you have made a mistake."
 
I was to the water scheme; but it struck me afterwards that the men might have misunderstood me. But it was too late to correct the mistake, and without another word I ran down the hill to the path that led to "The Elms."
 
My cheeks were hot with the consciousness that I had a secret that could be guessed even by Reuben Ruck; the consciousness made my heart beat again very fast; but it need not have done so: as was to have been expected, Mr. Harrod was not at home.
 
Dorcas and I put up the curtains together, and then I was left alone in the little while she went to make me a cup of tea. It was the first time I had been alone in that room—his room.
 
A bare, comfortless, countryman's and bachelor's room, but more interesting to me than the daintiest lady's parlor. By the empty the high-backed wooden chair in which he sat; beside the wide old-fashioned grate the hob upon which sang the kettle for his lonely breakfast; in the centre of the rough brick floor the large square oaken table at which he ate; on the high chimney-piece the pipes that he smoked, the tobacco-jar from which he filled them, a revolver, and an almanac; on the walls two water-color drawings, one representing an old gentleman in an arm-chair, the other the outside of a country house overgrown with wistaria; in the corner a handsome fowling-piece, which I had seen him carry; in the bookshelf between the windows the books that he read.
 
I wandered up and looked at them: a curious assemblage of shabby volumes, although at that time they to me all that was highest in culture. That was ten years ago, and I was in love. Had it not been so I might have remembered that father's library was at least as good.
 
Milton, a twelve-volumed edition of Shakespeare, a Bible, a Pilgrim's Progress, a volume of Cowper's Poems, a volume of Percy's Reliques, Adam Smith's Wealth of Nations, Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, Sir Walter Scott's Novels, Byron, Burns, some odd volumes of Dickens, and then books on Agriculture, the authors and their titles strange to me; this is all I remember. A mixed collection—probably the result of several generations, but not a bad one if Trayton Harrod read it all and read it well.
 
I looked at it sadly. Save the Walter Scott Novels, the Burns Poems, the Bible, and the Pilgrim's Progress, I knew none of them excepting by name, and not all of them even then. I felt very ignorant and very much ashamed of myself; for I never doubted that Harrod read and knew all these books, and how could a man who knew so much have anything in common with a girl who knew so little? I resolved to read, to learn, to grow clever. Joyce had said that I was clever, Joyce might know; why not?
 
I took the volume of Milton down and sat upon the low window-seat reading it. It was rather dreadful to be immediately confronted with Satan as an , for I had never been used to consider him as a personage, but rather as a grim embodiment of evil too horrible to be named aloud. But the rich and flow of the splendid verse fascinated me and I read on, although I didn't understand much that I read.
 
My thoughts wandered often to notice that the square of carpet was threadbare, and that I must persuade mother to get a new one; or to gaze out of the window upon the sloping of the downs whereon this house stood lonely—a mark for all the winds of heaven; in the the sleepy sheep strayed idly—cropping as they went—white upon the yellow pastures. And all the while I was listening for a footstep that I feared yet hoped would come, longing to be away and yet of the determination which should take me from that chance of a possible meeting. But, long as I have taken to tell it, the time that I waited was not ten minutes before a heavy foot made the boards creak in the passage and a hand was on the door-knob. I started up, my cheeks aflame—the volume of Milton on the floor. But when the door opened it was Broderick who stood in the opening. I don't think the red in my face faded, for I was that he should see me there, and I fancied that he looked surprised.
 
"Oh, do you know if Harrod is at home?" asked he.
 
"No, he's not," answered I, glancing up at the clean windows; "and I've been putting up fresh curtains meanwhile."
 
"They look delicious," said the squire, with a little awkward laugh, not quite so as usual. "What care you take of him!"
 
"Mother is a dreadful fidget, you know," murmured I.
 
"And at the same time you took a turn at Harrod's library," smiled he, picking up the volume which lay near my foot. "Milton! Rather a heavy order for a child like you, isn't it?"
 
I flushed up angrily. A child!
 
"Do you understand it?" asked he.
 
I struggled for a moment between pride and . "No," said I, "not all. Do you?"
 
He smiled, that kind, sweet smile that made me ashamed of being cross.
 
"Come, I'm not going to confess my ignorance to you," he laughed. "I'm too old;" and he took hold of my arm to help it into the sleeve of my jacket, which I was trying to put on.
 
But at that moment Dorcas brought in the tea, and of course I was obliged to stay and have some, and even to hand a cup to the squire to please her; country-folk stand on ceremony over such things, and I did not want to offend Dorcas.
 
"You'll stop in to-night and see Joyce, won't you?" said I, for want of something to say, for I felt more than usually awkward. "She looks better than ever. She hasn't lost her country looks."
 
"I am glad of that," said he, glancing at me, although of course he must have been thinking of sister; "they're the only ones worth having." And then, a............