under the true eyes. Scannell of Mains had small reason to give thanks there.
“You needn’t. Murray did as much. What? Yes, sir. Very well.”
The bellow of the tea-bell caught him at the little gate, and he stopped in a sudden sickness. For it was all the strait years of work-life that called from the whare. Then his eyes changed; he laid his hand on the side-rail, leapt it, and ran with long strides to the stables. For Kiliat rode up the pine avenue, and above the fences a little dark head showed alone. She sprang at his tread; her hands out; her face glowing.
“Oh, I’m glad—glad. I wanted to tell you———”
“Effie—dearest—I’m too dirty———”
But the earth gave three clipped moments of Heaven. Then Randal stood back.
“You’d no right to let me touch you,” he said. “Out here! And in daylight! You make me a brute to you, Effie. I must go———”
“Wait! Ah! it shouldn’t be me to say that! Are you so hungry, then?”
“Yes,” said Randal; and his eyes brought the colour swiftly.
“I—I never meant—I want to thank you for Art———”
“Please don’t,” said Randal dryly. “Your father has done that.”
“Oh! And my thanks don’t count? No—
