“Oh, no,” said Fairholme, somewhat dashed.  “If you are satisfied there can be no objection.”

“I’m glad on it.  I thought there mout be.”

“Let me tell you,” said Fairholme, nettled, “that your landlord would not be pleased to see him here.  He sent one of Sir John’s best shepherds out of the country, after filling his head with ideas above his station.  I heard Sir John speak very warmly about it last Sunday.”

“Mayhap you did, Muster Fairholme.  I have a lease of this land—­and gravelly, poor stuff it is—­and I am no ways beholden to Sir John’s likings and dislikings.  A very good thing too for Sir John that I have a lease, for there ain’t a man in the country ‘ud tak’ a present o’ the farm if it was free to-morrow.  And what’s a’ more, though that young man do talk foolish things about the rights of farm laborers and such-like nonsense, if Sir John was to hear him layin’ it down concernin’ rent and improvements, and the way we tenant farmers is put upon, p’raps he’d speak warmer than ever next Sunday.”

And Wickens, with a smile expressive of his sense of having retorted effectively upon the parson, nodded and walked away.

Just then Agatha, skating hand in hand with Jane Carpenter, heard these words in her ear:  “I have something very funny to tell you.  Don’t look round.”

She recognized the voice of Smilash and obeyed.

“I am not quite sure that you will enjoy it as it deserves,” he added, and darted off again, after casting an eloquent glance at Miss Carpenter.

Agatha disengaged herself from her companion, made a circuit, and passed near Smilash, saying:  “What is it?”

Smilash flitted away like a swallow, traced several circles around Fairholme, and then returned to Agatha and proceeded side by side with her.

“I have read the letter you wrote to Hetty,” he said.

Agatha’s face began to glow.  She forgot to maintain her balance, and almost fell.

“Take care.  And so you are not fond of me—­in the romantic sense?”

No answer.  Agatha dumb and afraid to lift her eyelids.

“That is fortunate,” he continued, “because—­good evening, Miss Ward; I have done nothing but admire your skating for the last hour—­because men were deceivers ever; and I am no exception, as you will presently admit.”

Agatha murmured something, but it was unintelligible amid the din of skating.

“You think not?  Well, perhaps you are right; I have said nothing to you that is not in a measure true.  You have always had a peculiar charm for me.  But I did not mean you to tell Hetty.  Can you guess why?”

Agatha shook her head.

“Because she is my wife.”

Agatha’s ankles became limp.  With an effort she kept upright until she reached Jane, to whom she clung for support.

“Don’t,” screamed Jane.  “You’ll upset me.”

“I must sit down,” said Agatha.  “I am tired.  Let me lean on you until we get to the chairs.”