"I know, Kate, I know. I will not take such long walks till you are well and strong again, and able to come with me."
"Why are we stopping out here? You are wet through. I built up a big fire in the parlour not long ago, thinking you would be cold and wet when you reached home."
His grasp tightened on her almost harshly.
"Do you mean that you came downstairs from your bed to look after my comfort?" he demanded. "Kate, you make me ashamed of myself."
"But I wasn't asleep, dear, and this dressing-gown is as warm as warm. Come and see what a beautiful blaze there is; I put on a heap of logs, as well as peat."
A ruddy glow welcomed them as they went in, and lit up every wrinkle and furrow that the past night had brought into Griff's face—lit up, too, the clotted patch of hair around the place where Mother Strangeways had struck him with the bottle. Kate, seeing this, gave a little cry.
"Where have you been?" she repeated. "Griff, you haven't been out with the poachers again? You promised so faithfully."
"No, wife," he laughed, uneasily, "I have not been poaching. Don't worry about it; it is only just a bruise."
But Kate had made up her mind not to be put off.
"You shall tell me. Do you think I'm a baby, Griff, that I must needs have everything unpleasant kept from me?"