"I'll walk across to Peewit, if you like, and take the books with me," he said, turning at the door. "It will give me an object in going out."
"Very well, dear. You will find them in my room, on the table near the window."
He stowed away the books in sundry capacious pockets, and set off towards the moor at a swinging pace. It was near the end of March, but the frost, repenting the easy winter it had given the Marshcotes folk, had suddenly bestirred itself and gripped the moorside shrewdly. Just as Griff left the churchyard, he met Greta Rotherson on her way to the village.
"You're enjoying the frost, too?" he said, coming to rest against a gate.
"No, I'm not," retorted Greta, crossly; "it's far too cold, and the end of one's nose gets red."
"Not your nose, at any rate; your cheeks have used up the supply.—I saw Gabriel this morning for five minutes."
"Did you?" Disdainfully.
"Yes; he called at the mill last night, and came round to tell me how disappointed he was to find you out."
"To find father out? He would be: we were with friends in the village."
"Look here, Miss Rotherson—why do you treat poor old Hirst as you do?" queried Griff, bluntly.