acknowledged to himself that, though he only half liked, and even
slightly feared her, there was a certain attraction about her--was it in
her dark unflinching eyes or in her very red lips?--which might lead him
into greater follies still.

Thus it came about that for two successive evenings Esther waited for
him in vain, and on the third evening he said to himself, with a
grudging relief, that by this time she had probably transferred her
affections to someone else.

It was Saturday, the second Saturday since he left town. He spent the
day about the farm, contemplated the pigs, inspected the feeding of the
stock, and assisted at the afternoon milking. Then at evening, with a
refilled pipe, he went for a long lean over the west gate, while he
traced fantastic pictures and wove romances in the glories of the sunset
clouds.

He watched the colours glow from gold to scarlet, change to crimson,
sink at last to sad purple reefs and isles, when the sudden
consciousness of someone being near him made him turn round. There
stood Esther, and her eyes were full of eagerness and anger.

'Why have you never been to the stile again?' she asked him. 'You
promised to come faithful, and you never came. Why have you not kep'
your promise? Why? Why?' she persisted, stamping her foot because
Willoughby remained silent.

What could he say? Tell her she had no business to follow him like this;
or own, what was, unfortunately, the truth, he was just a little glad to
see her?