"Take him into the
front room, while I put on a clean apron!" She hastened to shut the door
upon her husband, then paused, listening intently, as Mr. Fielding's
riding-whip rapped smartly on the door.
"Happen it is only the young lady he's after," she said to herself.
It was. In a moment, Mr. Fielding's voice, superior, slightly over
bearing, made itself heard. "Good evening, Rickett! I think Miss Moore is
lodging here. Is she in?"
"Good evening, sir!" said Rickett, and waited a moment for reflection.
"She was in, but I can't say but what she may have gone out again with
the dog."
"Well, find out, will you!" said Mr. Fielding. "Wait a minute! You'd
better take my card."
Mrs. Rickett returned to her ironing. "What ever he be come for?"
she murmured.
The Squires' horse stamped on the tiled path. It was eight o'clock, and
he wanted to get home to his supper. The squire growled at him
inarticulately, and there fell a silence.
The evening light spread golden over the apple-trees in the orchard.
Someone was wandering among the falling blossoms. He heard a low voice
softly singing. He flung his leg over his horse's back abruptly and
dropped to the ground.
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