because although Festing had, for a moment, forgotten Sadie, it was
ridiculous to imagine that Bob had done so. Then why had he started.
There were, however, one or two other things that disturbed Festing, who
felt that he had made a rash promise. But the promise had been made, and
he must do his best to carry it out.

He had a fine voyage, and a week after his arrival in the Old Country
walked up and down the terrace of a house among the hills in the North
of England. His host was an old friend of the family who had shown
Festing some kindness when he was young, and his daughter, Muriel,
approved her father's guest. She liked the rather frank, brown-skinned,
athletic man, whom she had joined on the terrace. He was a new and
interesting type; but although she was two or three years the younger
and attractive, their growing friendship was free from possible
complications. Muriel, as Festing had learned, was going to marry the
curate.

After the roar of activity at the bridge, where the hammers rang all day
and often far into the night, he found his new surroundings strangely
pleasant. In Canada, he had lived in the wilds; on the vast bare plains,
and among snowy mountains where man grappled with Nature in her sternest
mood. Thundering snowslides swept away one's work, icy rocks must be cut
through, and savage green floods threatened the half-built track when
the glaciers began to melt. Every day had brought a fresh anxiety, and
now he welcomed the slackening of the strain. The struggle had left
its mark on him; one saw it in his lean, muscular symmetry, his quiet
alertness, and self-confidence. But he could relax, and found the
English countryside had a soothing charm.

The sun was low and rugged hills cut against the pale-saffron sky. The