over and let himself into the Squire’s pew. He had the satisfaction of seeing the blood mount swiftly to her cheeks, but the next moment he found the old man—who had that morning sent word that he would be late—at his elbow, in the act of entering behind him. 

 It was too late to retreat, and with a face as hot as Josina’s he stumbled over the straw-covered footstool and sat down on her other hand. He knew that the Squire would resent his presence after what had happened, and when he stood up his ears were tingling. But he soon recovered himself. He saw the comic side of the situation, and long before the sermon was over, he found himself sufficiently at ease to enjoy some of the agréments which he had foreseen. 

 Carved roughly with a penknife on the front of the pew was a heart surmounting two clasped hands. Below each hand were initials—his own and Josina’s; and he never let the girl forget the August afternoon, three years before, when he had induced her to do her share. She had refused many times; then, like Eve in the garden, she had succumbed on a drowsy afternoon when they had had the pew to themselves and the drone of the preacher’s voice had barely risen above the hum of the bees. She had been little more than a child at the time, and ever since that day the apple had been to her both sweet and bitter. For she was not a child now, and, a woman, she rebelled against Arthur’s power to bring the blood to her cheeks and to play—with looks rather than words, for of these he was chary—upon feelings which she could not mask. 

 Of late resentment had been more and more gaining the upper hand with her. But to-day she forgave. She feared that which might pass between him and his uncle at the close of the service, and she had not the heart to be angry. However, when the dreaded moment came she was pleasantly disappointed. When they reached the porch, “Take my seat, take my meat,” the Squire said grimly. “Are you coming up?” 

 “If I may, sir? 

 “I want a word with you.” 

 This was not promising, but it might have been worse, and little more was said as the three passed, the congregation standing uncovered, down the Churchyard Walk and along the road to Garth. 

 The Squire, always taciturn, strode on in silence, his eyes on his fields. The other two said little, feeling trouble in the air. Fortunately at the early dinner there was a fourth to mend matters in the shape of Miss Peacock, the Squire’s housekeeper. She was a 

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