He had no settled or defined purpose in so doing, and, indeed, he hardly knew why he turned back, unless it was occasioned by a reluctance to lose sight of the cottage in the occupation of the widow.
He was so restless, so little himself, that he acted altogether in an erratic way.
In the course of ten minutes or so he caught sight of a solitary figure at the extreme end of the lane.
Peace came to a sudden halt; to all appearance from what he could make out the solitary messenger was none other than the detested Tom Gatliffe.
In a minute or so after this he was assured of this fact; with rapid strides the young man hastened along.
Peace waited; this was just what he desired. His face was distorted with passion, and wore on it a demoniacal expression.
Heedless of the coming storm young Gatliffe walked merrily along until he caught sight of the malevolent countenance of his quarrelsome schoolfellow.
“Ugh, it’s you, is it?” said Peace, with inexpressible disgust, both in his tone and manner; “you, eh?”
“What’s the matter, my friend?” inquired Tom.
“Friend be hanged,” answered Peace, “you’re no friend of mine. What do you do crawling about here? Tell me that. Oh, you may put on one of your sanctimonious looks, but it won’t deceive me. I say again, what do you do here?”