"She is a nice girl," replied Abel; "also well brought up. How came you to know her?"
"Quite casually; said good-morning; she responded. Asked her if I might have the pleasure of walking to the village with her; no harm done, I assure you. What I like about this country is people are so free and easy; it's far better, much pleasanter, don't you think so?" said Carl.
"It all depends. It is as well not to trust strangers. I don't think
Tom Thrush would like his daughter to talk to anybody," said Abel.
"Good Lord, why not? Why shouldn't she talk to me?" exclaimed Carl.
"Ask him; perhaps he'll tell you," said Abel.
"I will. She's promised to ask him to show me round when he has a bit of spare time."
"Has she now? Well, I'm blessed! I wonder what he'll say?"
"I'll make it worth his while. I don't suppose he'll be too proud to accept a fiver," said Carl.
To this Abel said nothing. He knew Tom Thrush's failing—love of money. The game-keeper was not miserly, but he dearly loved handling gold, and Abel surmised he had saved a "tidy sum."
As Jane walked home alone, she thought what a pleasant gentleman the stranger was, and how nicely he talked; she never for a moment dreamed there was any harm in speaking to him or allowing him to walk with her to the village. Jane Thrush never knew a mother's care, at least not long enough to influence her life, and her father left her very much to herself. She was accustomed to talk to people she met, tourists, and visitors to Trent Park and the Forest. Intercourse with them broadened her views; she regarded Carl Meason as one of them and he had proved agreeable.