"There's the field-paths, though 'twill take us a day longer--maybe two--"

"No matter, let us go by the field-paths, Diana."

So we presently struck off from the great, dusty high-road and went by ways pleasantly sequestered. By shady copse and rustling cornfield; past lonely farms and rick-yards; past placid cows that chewed, somnolent, in the shade of trees or stood knee-deep in stilly pools; past hop-gardens from whose long, green alleys stole a fragrance warm and acridly sweet; past rippling streams that murmured drowsily, sparkling amid mossy boulders or over pebbly beds; past rustics stooped to their leisured toil who straightened bowed backs to peer after us under sunburned hands; wheresoever I looked, I found some new matter for delight.

The afternoon was very hot for the wind had fallen, and, being somewhat distressed and weary with travel, I was greatly tempted to propose a halt that I might rest and feast my sight upon the many and varied beauties of this Kentish countryside, but seeing Diana walk with the same smooth, tireless stride, I forbore for very shame.

The stream we were following presently brought us to a wood where leaves rustled lazily, birds chirped drowsily and the brook whispered slumberously; a shady wood where wearied travellers might rest awhile, and, their troubles lulled to sleep, dream of journeys ended and happiness to be.

Here my companion paused; and watching her as she stood to stare down into the stream that widened hereabouts to a placid pool, it seemed to me more than ever that she was akin to the beauties around us, herself the spirit of these solitudes.

"O Diana!" I exclaimed, beholding her rapt expression. "Do you see it--feel it too--all the unending wonder of it?"

"Well, Peregrine," she answered, her gaze still bent upon the pool, "I be wondering where we shall eat and sleep to-night, for we're miles away from Brasted--"

"Heavens, child!" I exclaimed, seating myself beside the stream. "Have you no soul? Cannot you soar above such base material wants? Listen to the voice of this brook; has it no message for you?"

"It sounds cool, Peregrine, so while you rest, I'll bathe my feet." And sitting down, off came her shoes and stockings forthwith.

Now though, after my first startled glance, I kept my eyes averted, I could not help being very conscious of these white feet as they splashed and dabbled beside me and of their slim shapeliness.

"Diana, have you indeed no soul?" I repeated.

"If I have, it don't trouble me much!" she answered. "Why don't you dabble your feet; 'tis better than drinking?"

"O girl," I sighed, "have you no thought beyond your immediate bodily needs, no dreams of the greater--"

"Dreams?" she exclaimed bitterly. "It don't do for the likes o' me to go a-dreaming! Let them dream as can afford."

"But even the poorest, humblest of us may have our dreams, Diana, visions of a greater self and nobler living. Dreams are the soul's relaxation and inspire us to higher purpose. I think it is this faculty that lifts us above the brute creation."

Here, finding my companion silent, I glanced up to behold her watching a man who was approaching astride of a shaggy, bare-backed pony, a dark-complexioned, impudent-looking fellow with bright eyes and a wide mouth. At sight of us, he checked his steed with a jerk of the halter, smote his boot with the stout ash stick he carried, and burst into a shout of laughter. Here again I became extremely conscious of Diana's pretty, naked feet; but the fellow never even so much as glanced towards them.

"Aha, Anna!" he cried. "Whose mother's j'y ha' ye got theer?" and he pointed at me. At this she turned and spoke angrily in that unknown speech she had used with old Azor and in which he answered her. Thus they talked awhile, Diana scowling and fierce, he grinning and impudent.

"Hey, my buck!" he cried suddenly, tossing the ash stick to me. "You can tak' it; aye, tak' it--'t will be more use to you nor me--her'll need it more nor my pony, aye, that 'er will. Don't stand none o' her tricks, pal, though her'll take a lot o' taming, an' you ain't no match for 'er by your looks, but lay into 'er wi' yon stick an' do your best--" Having said which, he laughed again and, turning his pony, trotted off. Outraged by his insolence, I caught up the stick with some notion of running after him, but Diana checked me.

"Not him!" she said. "He ain't--isn't like Gabbing Dick; he's a fighting man and dangerous."

"Who is he?" I demanded.

"A Romany."

"And what did the fellow say to you?"

"Nothing to harm."

"Did he suggest--the--the same as the Peddler and that hateful old hag?"

"Lord--and what if he did?"

"Why, then," I answered, "for your sake there is but one of two courses that I can honourably adopt. I must either leave you at once or marry you at the--the first opportunity."

"Marry me!" she breathed. "Marry--me?"

"Exactly!" said I, folding my arms and staring down into the stream in a very determined fashion. At this, she sat so very still and silent that at last I ventured to glance up, to find her regarding me great-eyed. Then, all at once, to my indignant surprise, she began to laugh, but ceased as suddenly, and I wondered to see her eyes brimming with tears.

"But I--don't love you, and you don't love me--and never can!" said she at last.

"No!" I answered. "Nevertheless, my honour demands it!"

"What is honour?" she questioned wistfully.

"It is another name for duty!" I answered. "And my duty is to guard you from all evil or suspicion of evil."

"What evil, Peregrine?"

"The evil of vile tongues."

"But they can't make us evil, whatever they say of us."

"But what of your maidenly reputation?" I demanded. "That hateful peddler-fellow and vile old hag will make your name a byword--O, decidedly I must marry you!"

"Because of your duty?"

"And because it will resolve all my other difficulties with regard to your education; for instance, I will send you to the best and most select young ladies' academy--"

"What sort of a thing is that, Peregrine?"

"A place where ladies are educated in all the higher branches and taught deportment and all the refinements and usages of polite society."

"O!" exclaimed Diana, and sent up a sparkling shower of water with a flirt of her white foot.

"Furthermore," I continued, wiping my cheek--for some of this water had splashed me, "furthermore, Diana, you need never fear the future any longer, because as my--my wife, you would of course lack for nothing."

"Meaning as you'd find me plenty to eat and drink, Peregrine?"

"Heavens, yes, child!" I exclaimed. "You would be a lady of some position in society."

"A lady--O!" she exclaimed, and flirted her foot again.

"I beg you won't do that!" said I, wiping my face.

"But I like to, Peregrine."

"Why, pray?"

"Because you are such--oh, such a Peregrine!"

"That sounds ridiculous, Diana!"

"But means a lot, Peregrine. But tell me, if you can make your wife a real lady, you must be a gentleman and rich--are you?"

"I shall have a sufficiently comfortable fortune when I come of age."

"You will be rich and grand--like your aunt?"

"I suppose so."

"Without working for it?"

"Of course; I shall inherit it from my father."

"Any one could get rich that way, couldn't they? And when will you get your money, Peregrine?"

"In two years' time. Meanwhile, by writing to my uncles, I can procure all the money I need."

"Why don't you?"

"I propose doing so at the very earliest opportunity." At this she