He took the hand gravely, let his own close over it in a firm, warm clasp, and released it silently.
“Mary.”
Claude turned to go, and her cousin went to her side white as ashes. Glyddyr stood looking from one to the other, as if hesitating what to do.
“Claude, do you hear me,” whispered Mary.
“Mr Glyddyr, are you going this way?” said Claude in a low deep voice.
“Yes, of course,” he cried, with his face lighting up, and darting a look of triumph at his rival, who stood motionless, with one hand resting upon his rod as though it were a spear, he went on down the glen by Claude’s side.
“Mr Lisle—Chris—do you not hear? Good-bye.”
Chris started back as it were into life, and saw that Mary had run back and laid her hand in his.
“Ah, little woman,” he said, with a gentle, pitying tone in his voice, “I was thinking, I suppose. Good-bye, Mary, and don’t fall in love, dear; it’s a mistake.”
“Chris,” she cried, with the tears in her beautiful eyes, as she gazed at the broad-shouldered sturdy fellow, “why do you talk like that?”