"No," she said, simply. "This is the only part of our land from which it can be seen, and my father never comes here: never leaves the grounds, the garden." She paused a moment. "I don't know why you should mind--except that I said that the land was got unfairly--I wish I had not said that."

Stafford coloured.

"So do I," he said; "but I hope it isn't true. There may be some mistake. I don't know anything about my father's affairs--I haven't seen him for years; I am almost a stranger to him."

She listened with a grave face, then she touched the big chestnut; but Stafford, almost unconsciously, laid his hand on the rein nearest him.

His mouth and chin expressed the determination which now and again surprised even his most intimate friends.

"Miss Heron, I'm afraid--" He paused, and she waited, her eyes downcast and fixed on the horse's ears.

"I scarcely know how to put what I want to say," he said. "I'm rather bad at explaining myself; but I--well, I hope you won't feel angry with me because of the house, because of anything that has pa.s.sed between your father and mine--Of course I stand by him; but--well, _I_ didn't build the confounded place--I beg your pardon! but I think it's rather hard that you should cut me--oh, I can see by your face that you mean to do it!--that you should regard me as a kind of enemy because--"

The usually fluent Stafford stopped helplessly as the beautiful eyes turned slowly upon him with a slight look of wonder in them.

"Why should you mind?" she said, with almost childish innocence. "You do not know me; we only met yesterday--we are not friends--Oh I am not forgetting your kindness last night; oh, no!--but what can it matter to you?"

In another woman Stafford would have suspected the question of coquetry, of a desire to fish for the inevitable response; but looking in those clear, guileless eyes, he could not entertain any such suspicion.

"I beg your pardon; but it does matter very much," he retorted. "In the first place, a man does not like being cut by a lady; and in the next, we shall be neighbours--I'm going to stay there--" he nodded grimly at the beautiful "little place."

"Neighbours?" she said, half absently. "It is farther off than you think; and, besides, we know no one. We have no neighbours in that sense--or friends. My father does not like to see anyone; we live quite alone--"

"So I've heard--" He stopped and bit his lip; but she did not seem to have noticed his interruption.

--"So that even if my father did not object to the house or--or--"

"My father," said Stafford with a smile.

A smile answered his candour.

"It would be all the same. And why should it matter to you? You have a great many friends, no doubt--and we should not be likely to meet."

"Oh, yes, we should!" he said, with the dogged kind of insistence which also sometimes surprised his friends. "I was going to avail myself of your permission, and fish the stream--but, of course, I can't do that now."

"No--I suppose not," she a.s.sented. "But we should be sure to meet on the road--I should be riding--walking."

"But not on this side often," she argued.

A faint, very faint colour had stolen into the clear pallor of her cheek, her eyes were downcast. She was honestly surprised, and, yes, a little pleased that he should protest against the close of their acquaintance; pleased, though why, she could not have told; for it did not seem to matter.

"Oh, yes, I should," he retorted. "It's very pretty this side, and--See here, Miss Heron." He drew a little nearer and looked up at her with something like a frown in his eagerness. "Of course I shall speak to my father about--well, about the way the land was bought, and I'm hoping, I'm sure, that he will be able to explain it satisfactorily; and I want to tell you that it is a mistake. I don't know much of my father, but I can't believe that he would do anything underhand." He stopped suddenly as the bagman's remarks flashed across his memory. "If your father's grievance against him is just, why--ah, well, you'll have to cut me when we meet; but I don't think it is; and I don't think it would be fair to treat me as if _I_'d done something wrong."

Her brows came together, and she looked at him as if she were puzzled.

"I don't know why it matters," she said.

"Well, I can't tell you," he said, helplessly. "I only know that I don't want to part from you this morning, knowing that the next time we meet we should meet as strangers. I wanted to come to the Hall, to enquire after Mr. Heron."

Her face flushed.

"Do not," she said in a low voice.

"I won't, of course," he responded, quickly. "It would only make matters worse; your father would naturally dislike me, refuse to see me; but--well, it's very hard on me."

She looked at him again, gravely, thoughtfully, as if she were still puzzled by his persistence. Her eyes wandered to the dogs. Bess was still standing up against him, and Donald had thrown himself down beside him, and was regarding Ida with an air that said, quite plainly, "This new friend of yours is all right."

"You have made friends with the dogs," she said, with a slight smile.

Stafford laughed.

"Oh, yes. There must be some good in dumb animals, for most of 'em take to me at first sight."

She laughed at this not very brilliant display of wit. "I a.s.sure you they wouldn't cut me next time we met. You can't be less charitable than the dogs, Miss Heron!"

She gave a slight shrug to her straight, square shoulders. The gesture seemed charming to Stafford, in its girlish Frenchiness.

"Ah, well," she said, with a pretty air of resignation, as if she were tired of arguing.

Stafford's face lit up, and he laughed--the laugh of the man who wins; but it died away rather suddenly, as she said gravely:

"But I do not think we shall meet often. I do not often go to the other side of the lake: very seldom indeed; and you will not, you say, fish the Heron; so that--Oh, there is the colt loose," she broke off. "How can it have got out? I meant to ride it to-day, and Jason, thinking I had changed my mind, must have turned it out."

The colt came waltzing joyously along the road, and catching sight of the chestnut, whinnied delightedly, and the chestnut responded with one short whinny of reproof. Ida rode forward and headed the colt, and Stafford quietly slid along by the hedge and got behind it.

"Take care!" said Ida; "it is very strong. What are you going to do?"

Stafford did not reply, but stole up to the truant step by step cautiously, and gradually approached near enough to lay his hand on its shoulder; from its shoulder he worked to its neck and wound his arms round it.

Ida laughed.

"Oh, you can't hold it!" she said as the colt plunged.

But Stafford hung on tightly and yet, so to speak, gently, soothing the animal with the "horse language" with which every man who loves them is acquainted.

Ida sat for an instant, looking round with a puzzled frown; then she slipped down, took the bridle off the chestnut and slipped it on the colt, the chestnut, who evidently understood the business, standing stock still.

"Now I'll hold it--it will be quieter with me--if you will please change the saddle."

Unthinkingly, Stafford obeyed, and got the saddle on the jigging and dancing youngster. As unthinkingly, he put Ida up; and it was not until the colt rose on its hind legs that he remembered to ask her if the horse were broken.

"Scarcely," she said with a laugh; "but it will be all right.

Good-morning--and thank you!" And calling to the chestnut she turned the colt and tore off, the chestnut and the dogs scampering after her.

Stafford's face grew hot for a moment with fear for her, then it grew hotter with admiration as he watched her skimming across the moor in the direction of the Hall. Once, just before she vanished from his sight, she turned and waved her hand to him as if to a.s.sure him that she was safe. The gesture reminded him of the white figure standing in the doorway last night, and something stirred in his heart and sent a warm thrill through him. In all his life he had never seen anyone like her!

CHAPTER V.