A quarter of an hour brought her into the High Street, and for want of a more important errand she called at the harness-maker’s for a dog-collar that she required.  
It happened to be market-day, and Nicholas, having the engagements which called him to keep the appointment with her in the Sallows, rushed off at the end of the afternoon to attend to them as well as he could.  Arriving thus in a great hurry on account of the lateness of the hour, he still retained the wild, amphibious appearance which had marked him when he came up from the meadows to her side—an exceptional condition of things which had scarcely ever before occurred.  When she crossed the pavement from the shop door, the shopman bowing and escorting her to the carriage, Nicholas chanced to be at the road-waggon office, talking to the master of the .  There were a good many people about, and those near paused and looked at her , in the full stroke of the level October sun, which went under the brims of their hats, and pierced through their button-holes.  From the group she heard murmured the words: ‘Mrs. Nicholas Long.’
 
The unexpected remark, not without distinct in its tone, took her so greatly by surprise that she was confounded.  Nicholas was by this time nearer, though coming against the sun he had not yet perceived her.  Influenced by her father’s lecture, she felt angry with him for being there and causing this awkwardness.  Her notice of him was therefore slight, perhaps, over; and her vexation at his presence showed distinctly in her face as she sat down in her seat.  Instead of his waiting eye, she turned her head away.
 
A moment after she was sorry she had treated him so; but he was gone.
 
Reaching home she found on her dressing-table a note from her father.  The statement was brief:
 
I have considered and am of the same opinion.  You must marry him.  He can leave home at once and travel as proposed.  I have written to him to this effect.  I don’t want any , so don’t wait dinner for me.
 
Nicholas was the wrong kind of man to be blind to his Christine’s , though he did not know its entire cause.  He had lately foreseen something of this sort as possible.
 
‘It serves me right,’ he thought, as he homeward.  ‘It was absurd—wicked of me to lead her on so.  The sacrifice would have been too great—too cruel!’  And yet, though he thus took her part, he flushed with indignation every time he said to himself, ‘She is ashamed of me!’
 
On the which overlooked Froom-Everard he met a neighbour of his—a stock-dealer—in his gig, and they drew and exchanged a few words.  A part of the dealer’s conversation had much meaning for Nicholas.
 
‘I’ve had occasion to call on Everard,’ the former said; ‘but he couldn’t see me on account of being quite knocked up at some bad news he has heard.’
 
Nicholas rode on past Froom-Everard to Elsenford Farm, pondering.  He had new and startling matter for thought as soon as he got there.  The Squire’s note had arrived.  At first he could not credit its import; then he saw further, took in the tone of the letter, saw the writer’s contempt behind the words, and understood that the letter was written as by a man into a corner.  Christine was defiantly—insultingly—hurled at his head.  He was accepted because he was so despised.
 
And yet with what respect he had treated her and hers!  Now he was reminded of what an agricultural friend had said years ago, seeing the eyes of Nicholas on Christine as on an angel when she passed: ‘Better a little fire to warm ’ee than a great one............