But Meg was different. As now and then he met her flitting up the stairs at the hall, or passing to and from her mother's cottage, he knew he had to do with quite a different woman from those with whom he was accustomed to meet.
He was sauntering along a lane one afternoon in March when his work was over, thinking of all this, and enjoying the quiet twilight, when he saw a stooping figure in front of him eagerly looking for something.
"Have you lost anything?" he asked, coming up to the figure. "Can I help you?"
He found with a start that the subject of his thoughts was close to him.
Hitherto she had only nodded civilly in return for his passing greeting, and now in the dusk hardly recognized him, though she knew he was a stranger to their village.
"Oh, thank you!" she answered.
"What is it?" he asked.
"It is my mother's little brooch. I can't think how I came to drop it. I should not mind so much only that it has my father's hair in it. She values it very much."
"I dare say we shall manage to find it. When did you miss it?" he asked.
"Just now—not two minutes ago. I know I had it at that stile, because I turned there to look at the new moon, and I had it in my hand then."