“Why, if it isn't the parson and Miss Winter,” said East, smiling.
True enough, there they were, standing together on the very verge of the mound, beyond the firs, some ten yards in front of the last comers, looking out into the sunset.
“I say, Tom, another good omen,” whispered East; “hadn't we better beat a retreat?”
Before Tom could answer, or make up his mind what to do, Hardy turned his head and caught sight of them, and then Katie turned too, blushing like the little clouds overhead. It was an embarrassing moment. Tom stammered out that they had come up quite by chance, and then set to work, well seconded by East, to look desperately unconscious, and to expatiate on the beauties of the view. The light began to fade, and the little clouds to change again from soft pink to grey, and the evening star shone out clear as they turned to descend the hill, when the Englebourn clock chimed nine.
Katie attached herself to Tom, while Hardy helped the Captain down the steep pitch, and on to the back of Nibble. They went a little ahead. Tom was longing to speak to his cousin, but could not tell how to begin. At last Katie broke the silence;
“I am so vexed that this should have happened!”
“Are you, dear? So am not I,” he said, pressing her arm to his side.
“But I mean, it seems so forward—as if I had met Mr. Hardy here on purpose. What will your friend think of me?”
“He will think no evil.”
“But indeed, Tom, do tell him, pray. It was quite an accident. You know how I and Mary used to go up the Hawk's Lynch whenever we could, on fine evenings.”