“It’s as I said, at Yokes Court,” said Mrs. Tolhurst—­“there’s no good young Mus’ Southland saying as the girl’s mother sent for her—­I know better.”

“I saw Mrs. Lambarde after church on Sunday,” said Joanna, “and she wasn’t expecting Elsie then.”

“Elsie went before her box did,” said Milly Pump, “Bill Piper fetched it along after her, as he told me himself.”

“I’m sure it’s Tom Southland,” said Joanna.

“Surelye,” said Mrs. Tolhurst, “and all the more as he’s been saying at the Woolpack that the Old Squire’s been hanging around after the girl—­which reminds me, Miss Joanna, as I hear Mus’ Martin’s back this afternoon.”

“This afternoon!  He said to-morrow morning.”

“Well, he’s come this afternoon.  Broadhurst met him driving from Rye station.”

“Then he’s sure to be over to-night.  You get the wine-glasses out, Mrs. Tolhurst, and spread in the dining-room.”

She rose up from table, once more apart from her servants.  Her brain was humming with surprised joy—­Martin was back, she would soon see him, he would be sure to come to her.  And then she would tell him of her surrender, and the cloud would be gone from their love.

With beating heart she ran upstairs to change her dress and tidy herself, for he might come at any moment.  There was a red-brown velvet dress he particularly liked—­she pulled it out of her drawer and smoothed its folds.  Her drawers were crammed and heavy with the garments she was to wear as Martin’s wife; there were silk blouses bought at smart shops in Folkestone and Marlingate; there was a pair of buckled shoes—­size eight; there were piles of neat longcloth and calico underclothing, demure nightdresses buttoning to the chin, stiff petticoats, and what she called “petticoat bodies,” fastening down the front with linen buttons, and with tiny, shy frills of embroidery at the neck and armholes.

She put on the brown dress, and piled up her hair against the big comb.  She looked at herself in the glass by the light of the candles she had put to light up the rainy evening.  Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright, and her hair and her dress were the same soft, burning colour....  When would Martin come?

Then suddenly she thought of something even better than his coming.  She thought of herself going over to North Farthing House and telling him that she had changed her mind and that she was his just as soon as ever he wanted her....  Her breath came fast at the inspiration—­it would be better than waiting for him here; it gave to her surrender the spectacular touch which hitherto it had lacked and her nature demanded.  The rain was coming down the wind almost as fiercely and as fast as it had come on Tuesday night, but Joanna the marsh-born had never cared for weather.  She merely laced on her heavy boots and bundled into her father’s overcoat.  Then she put out a hand for an old hat, and suddenly she remembered the hat Martin had said he liked her in above all others.  It was an old rush basket, soft and shapeless with age, and she tied it over her head with her father’s red and white spotted handkerchief.