"'Tis in my hand."

"I mind poor Father's plans, and that makes me nervous when you race on so."

"What about his plans?"

"He'd a nice business, shoeing the carriage horses of the quality. He never did fancy rough work. But it went to bits, when motoring came in.

That lay back of his poor health. We never know what'll happen."

"I say we do. G.o.d Almighty helps them as helps themselves. I'm helping myself to a large spoonful, but I can down it, and more too."

Undeterred and undismayed by her protestations, he rushed on gaily, as if driving his 'bus at excess speed. To Fancy he seemed to be whirling out of sight altogether. Nevertheless she guessed that this nerve-racking, soul-jolting excursion into the future was presented as a joy-ride for her.

"If you ain't careful," she warned him, "you'll fetch up in Buckingham Palace."

At this derisive quip, he jammed on brakes, regaining her sympathy with the grim remark:

"Or in a ditch. You're right, my girl. 'Tis a fool as toots his own horn. Let's say good-bye to the old van."

The van stood derelict at the back of the shed; the stout horses had been sold at a fair price. Alfred locked up the door of the shed and glanced dubiously at the grey skies. The afternoon promised fine weather, but the gra.s.s in the park was sopping. Being a true Yellam, Alfred had made elaborate plans; he had chosen the spot where he meant to propose, a bosky nook in one of the smaller plantations, hard by a tiny stream, where ferns grew luxuriantly. In this sanctuary Fancy might be persuaded to take off her hat and gloves. Then, after due preliminaries, the man would have his way with the maid. He felt full of poetry, and quite incapable of expressing it.

"Wet as water it be underfoot," he growled.

And then Fancy made her small joke. Alfred jumped at the suggestion.

Twenty minutes later, they were floating upon the quiet bosom of the Avon, where the river widened above the mill.

"Perfectly lovely," murmured Fancy.

Alfred nodded, with a heart too full for speech. The sight of his red face amused the maid. She knew well enough what was simmering beneath a too stolid exterior. He pulled up-stream with short, jerky strokes, effective but not elegant. His jacket lay across Fancy's knees, a protection against splashings. White shirt-sleeves bulged with big muscles. They were heading for a small willow-covered eyot, really--as Alfred reflected--a more secluded spot than the bosky dell. He could push the boat through the reeds and bulrushes and find snug harbourage under the willows.

He did so.

Secure from prying eyes, they sat together, side by side, at the bottom of the boat. Alfred slipped an arm round Fancy's waist, and pressed her to him. He wondered whether she would remain cool and calm, when the burning question was asked. With huge satisfaction he noticed that her bosom just heaved beneath her thin blouse. On this blouse rested a tiny gold locket which held the portrait of her sailor brother. Alfred had never seen this locket palpitate before. His own heart thumped almost indecorously at the sight. Stealing a glance at her face, he saw that she was blushing. The silence was so delicious that he hated to break it--and didn't. Certain carefully-prepared phrases whirled out of his mind.

"My!" exclaimed Fancy.

"What is it, dear?"

"A big water-rat!"

"So 'tis. I don't blame him for wishing to have a look at you."

The rat behaved charmingly, peering down at them from the bank, ready to dive into his hole, if the trespa.s.sers upon his domain moved.

"He ain't afraid," said Alfred; "but I am."

Fancy said hastily:

"Don't move! What bright eyes he has, to be sure."

"No brighter than others I know."

"Shush-h-h! There! He's gone. I wanted to see him stroke his whiskers. I wonder whether he be a gentleman rat or a lady rat?"

This happy remark provided a new opening. Alfred said with authority:

"He's a buck rat. He didn't feel frightened, but I reckon he'd told his missis and the little 'uns that he'd just take a squint at a notable couple, and come back. I'll wager a new hat, he's telling 'em a fine tale."

"For all you know he may be an old bachelor."

"Ah! Rats are wiser than we. And Nature is kinder to them. 'Tis no big business for them to get to house-keeping. When they're good and ready, they go at it--slam bang."

"Yes. Animals don't want much."

Alfred pressed her a little closer.

"Take off hat and gloves, Fancy."

"Why?"

"'Tis a notion I have."

She smiled faintly, and obeyed. Alfred eyed the hat, a simple affair, home-made. The gloves were of white silkette. Everything she wore seemed to be part of herself, dainty, ephemeral, easily crushed and soiled.

"Put your dear head on my shoulder. 'Twill be more cosy."

She hesitated, and did so. Her palely-pink cheek lay close to his lips.

He said solemnly:

"I mind what you said, Fancy, about lying awake nights, wanting lots and lots of things. Tell me about the things you want."

"I c-c-can't."

Her voice had sunk to an attenuated whisper. He realised that she was trembling, and his own pulses throbbed with hers. He continued, more fluently, pressing her tighter to him:

"Are you wanting grand things?"

"Oh, no. Whatever made you think so?"

"Because, dear, there is something grand about you. It mazes me, when I think on't in my everyday way. You're Parson's parlourmaid, thank the Lord! and I'm a plain carrier, with no book-learning and rough manners.

'Tis like this, Fancy. I'm of the earth, and you're a lil' angel.

'Twouldn't surprise me to find wings growing on your dear back."

He touched her back gently, to make sure. It was satisfactory to find that wings, as yet, had not sprouted.

"I'm only a silly girl, Alfred."

He repeated obstinately:

"You're grand. I reckon 'tis your soul which comes nigh to busting your d.i.n.ky body. Now, Fancy, what do you think about, nights?"