“Why do you shiver so, Auntie Anthea, are you cold?”

“No, dear.”

“Well, then, why are you so quiet to me,—­I’ve asked you a question—­three times.”

“Have you dear?  I—­I was thinking; what was the question?”

“I was asking you if you would be awful frightened s’posing we did find a pixie—­or a gnome, in the shadows; an’ would you be so very awfully frightened if a gnome—­a great, big one, you know,—­came jumping out an’—­ran off with you,—­should you?”

“No!” said Anthea, with another shiver, “No, dear,—­I think I should be—­rather glad of it!”

“Should you, Auntie?  I’m—­so awful glad you wouldn’t be frightened.  A course, I don’t s’pose there are gnomes—­I mean great, big ones,—­really, you know,—­but there might be, on a magnif’cent night, like this.  If you shiver again Auntie you’ll have to take my coat!”

“I thought I heard a horse galloping—­hush!”

They had reached the stile, by now, the stile with the crooked, lurking nail, and she leaned there, a while, to listen.  “I’m sure I heard something,—­away there—­on the road!”

“I don’t!” said Small Porges, stoutly,—­“so take my hand, please, an’ let me ’sist you over the stile.”

So they crossed the stile, and, presently, came to the brook that was the most impertinent brook in the world.  And here, upon the little rustic bridge, they stopped to look down at the sparkle of the water, and to listen to its merry voice.

Yes, indeed to-night it was as impertinent as ever, laughing, and chuckling to itself among the hollows, and whispering scandalously in the shadows.  It seemed to Anthea that it was laughing at her,—­mocking, and taunting her with—­the future.  And now, amid the laughter, were sobs, and tearful murmurs, and now, again, it seemed to be the prophetic voice of old Nannie: 

“’By force ye shall be wooed and by force ye shall be wed, and there is no man strong enough to do it, but him as bears the Tiger Mark upon him!’”

The “Tiger Mark!” Alas! how very far from the truth were poor, old Nannie’s dreams, after all, the dreams which Anthea had very nearly believed in—­once or twice.  How foolish it had all been!  And yet even now—­

Anthea had been leaning over the gurgling waters while all this passed through her mind, but now,—­she started at the sound of a heavy foot-fall on the planking of the bridge, behind her, and—­in that same instant, she was encircled by a powerful arm, caught up in a strong embrace,—­swung from her feet, and borne away through the shadows of the little copse.

It was very dark in the wood, but she knew, instinctively, whose arms these were that held her so close, and carried her so easily—­away through the shadows of the wood,—­away from the haunting, hopeless dread of the future from which there had seemed no chance, or hope of escape.

And, knowing all this, she made no struggle, and uttered no word.  And now the trees thinned out, and, from under her lashes she saw the face above her; the thick, black brows drawn together,—­the close set of the lips,—­the grim prominence of the strong, square chin.