On this golden morning Ishmael found Blanche, as she had meant him to,
in the garden at Paradise, the sun turning her ashen hair to fire.

"Don't let's waste a minute of to-day," he said. "We'll have the cart
out and not come back till the evening--that is, if you care about it?"

"Of course I care about it," she told him, and ran upstairs to pin on a
shady hat and powder her face.

"Shall I speak now? Shall I speak now?" thought Ishmael as he drove down
the lane; but with a thrill of anticipation came "No--my hands aren't
free." For Mrs. Penticost's cob, a nervous, spirited creature, newly
broken in, was between the shafts.

"Will he speak yet?" thought Blanche; "and if he does, what shall I
say?" She glanced up at the set, earnest face, and, sensitive to her
look, his eyes met hers. He averted his gaze quickly, but his heart
sang, "She cares! she cares!" And quite suddenly he felt he wished to
postpone speaking as long as possible, that the savour of this suspended
bliss was too sweet to lose. A tremor ran through Blanche as their eyes
met. She recognised that in him was an austerity against which even she
could beat in vain.

It was evening by the time they drove back, and the shadows lay cool and
long across the roads. Urged on by visions of his snug stall, the pony
went like the wind; neither of the two in the cart spoke much: once he
bent down to tuck the rugs more closely round her and his hand, touching
hers, lingered a moment. When they drove into the little yard, Lylie,
the dairymaid, was mixing barley-meal and scald-milk for the pigs and