"We're bidding farewell," she said.
"Yes," said Christopher. "To-morrow we set out for Oxford. Do you remember Yoredale? Your heart was at the top of a high tree, you said."
"So it is still, sir—a little higher than before."
"By an odd chance, so is mine. I chose a neighbouring tree."
She was silent for a while, then passed by him and down the stair. He would have called her back if pride had let him.
Then he went slowly up to bed, wondering that some freak of temper had bidden him speak at random. For an hour it was doubtful whether tiredness or the fret of his healing wounds would claim the mastery; then sleep had its way.
"What have I said?" he muttered, with his last conscious thought.
He had said the one right thing, as it happened. Knaresborough had taught him, willy-nilly, that there are more ways than one of winning a spoiled lass for bride.
Next day he woke with a sense of freshness and returning vigour. It was pleasant to see the steaming dishes ready for Michael and himself before their riding out, pleasant to take horse and hear the Squire bidding them God-speed, with a sharp injunction to follow the route he had mapped out for them. But Joan had not come to say farewell.
Just as they started, Lady Ingilby summoned Kit to her side, and behind her, in the shadow of the doorway, stood Joan.