It was, perhaps, in pursuance of this quite commendable resolve, that Dorothy one bright, cloudless day in August, clad in a close-fitting costume that permitted the graceful movement of her limbs without concealing the charming lines of her form came suddenly upon Tom Pinder in the neighbourhood of the Isle of Skye. Dorothy, who had, as far as the nature of the ground permitted, followed the course of the stream as it flowed from its source down the valley, was warm and flushed from the toilsome ascent, but the glow of health was on her cheek and its sparkle in her eye. Tom, on the contrary, was pale and careworn. Too sedulous devotion to his necessary work, too little rest of mind and body, but above all the constant anxiety and uncertainty for the future were telling their tale upon his robust, vigorous, elastic frame. But a glad light sprang to his eyes, and a happy smile to his lips as he met Dorothy’s outstretched hand.
“You are quite a stranger, Mr. Pinder; it is ages since I caught more than a glimpse of you. Betty is quite fretting that you never go to see her now. Vows she is wearing to skin and bone; but it must be by the eye of faith she attests the process.”
“No. I do not often get to Betty’s kitchen now,” said Tom, with something very like a sigh. “More’s the pity; you see, I can’t very well go openly, and you wouldn’t have me go like a thief in the night.”
“No, I would not. It’s all this wretched law business, of course. But which way were you going, uphill, or down?”
“Bilberry! Well, there’ll be a breeze from the water’s face. But I think I ought to be turning homewards.”
“May I accompany you, Miss Tinker? You pass near my own mill, you know.”
“La! my mill! how grand it sounds. I think I should like to say my mill, and to feel that the hands were my people. ’Tis a relic of feudalism, I suppose.”
Tom raised his eyebrows almost imperceptibly. He had not credited Dorothy with much historical knowledge.
“Oh, you needn’t look so superior, Mr. Wiseacre. I’ve read a book or two, though I don’t teach classes on Sunday, like a naughty, defiant unbeliever, as some folk are. But there, you shan’t accompany me homewards. That will perhaps teach you to veil your superiority.”
“I assure you, Miss Tinker,” began Tom, but boggled at his disclaimer, for he was a poor liar, and Dorothy had; divined his thoughts shrewdly.