Anthea walked on hastily, never looking behind, and so, coming back to the house, threw herself down by the open window, and stared out with unseeing eyes at the roses nodding slumberous heads in the gentle breeze.

So the irrevocable step was taken!  She had given her promise to marry Cassilis whenever he would, and must abide by it!  Too late now, any hope of retreat, she had deliberately chosen her course, and must follow it—­to the end.

“Begging your pardon, Miss Anthea mam—!”

She started, and glancing round, espied Adam.

“Oh!—­you startled me, Adam,—­what is it?”

“Begging your pardon, Miss Anthea, but is it true as Mr. Belloo be gone away—­for good?”

“Yes, Adam.”

“Why then all I can say is—­as I’m sorry,—­ah! mortal sorry I be, an’ my ’eart, mam, my ’eart likewise gloomy.”

“Were you so—­fond of him, Adam?”

“Well, Miss Anthea,—­considering as he were—­the best, good-naturedest, properest kind o’ gentleman as ever was; when I tell you as over an’ above all this, he could use his fists better than any man as ever I see,—­him having knocked me into a dry ditch, though, to be sure I likewise drawed his claret,—­begging your pardon, I’m sure, Miss Anthea; all of which happened on account o’ me finding him a-sleeping in your ’ay, mam;—­when I tell you furthermore, as he treated me ever as a man, an’ wern’t noways above shaking my ‘and, or smoking a pipe wi’ me—­sociable like; when I tell you as he were the finest gentleman, and properest man as ever I knowed, or heard tell on,—­why, I think as the word ‘fond’ be about the size of it, Miss Anthea mam!” saying which, Adam nodded several times, and bestowed an emphatic backhanded knock to the crown of his hat.

“You used to sit together very often—­under the big apple tree, didn’t you, Adam?”

“Ah!—­many an’ many a night, Miss Anthea.”

“Did he—­ever tell you—­much of his—­life, Adam?”

“Why yes, Miss Anthea,—­told me summat about his travels, told me as he’d shot lions, an’ tigers—­away out in India, an’ Africa.”

“Did he ever mention—­”

“Well, Miss Anthea?” said he enquiringly, seeing she had paused.

“Did he ever speak of—­the—­lady he is going to marry?”

“Lady?” repeated Adam, giving a sudden twist to his hat.

“Yes,—­the lady—­who lives in London?”

“No, Miss Anthea,” answered Adam, screwing his hat tighter, and tighter.

“Why—­what do you mean?”

“I mean—­as there never was no lady, Miss Anthea,—­neither up to Lonnon, nor nowhere’s else, as I ever heard on.”

“But—­oh Adam!—­you—­told me—­”

“Ah!—­for sure I told ye, but it were a lie, Miss Anthea,—­leastways, it weren’t the truth.  Ye see, I were afraid as you’d refuse to take the money for the furnitur’ unless I made ye believe as he wanted it uncommon bad.  So I up an’ told ye as he’d bought it all on account o’ him being matrimonially took wi’ a young lady up to Lonnon—­”