She had gone that way to Brook many and many a
time, but never quite alone before. It seemed, at first, strange to her
to be walking across the open heath by herself, and yet she felt,
somehow, as if it had all happened before--perhaps in a dream. It was a
warm afternoon towards six o'clock, and the August glow of the heather
in blossom spread everywhere like a purple sea. At the gate of the
Forest Farm the cows were gathered, with meek patience expecting their
call to the milking-shed; but after she passed under the shade of the
trees beyond Great-Ash Ford she met not a creature until she came in
sight of the wicket opening into the wood from the manor-garden. And
there was Harry Musgrave himself.
Approaching over the turf with her light swift foot, Bessie drew quite
near to him unheard, and saw him before he saw her. He had seated
himself on a fallen tree, and leant his head on his hand in an easy
attitude; his countenance was abstracted rather than sad, and his eyes,
fixed on the violet and amber of the sky in the west, were full of
tranquil watching. Bessie's voice as she cried out his name was
tremulous with joy, and her face as he turned and saw her was beautiful
with the flush of young love's delight.
"I was waiting for you. I knew you would come, my dear, my dear!" was
his greeting. They went into the garden hand in hand, silent: they
looked at each other with assured happiness.
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