Now they were approaching a stile towards which Bellew had directed his eyes, from time to time, as, for that matter, curiously enough, had Anthea; but to him it seemed that it never would be reached, while to her, it seemed that it would be reached much too soon.  Therefore she began to rack her mind trying to remember some gate, or any gap in the hedge that should obviate the necessity of climbing it.  But, before she could recall any such gate, or gap, they were at the stile, and Bellew, leaping over, had set down the basket, and stretched out his hand to aid her over.  But Anthea, tall, and lithe, active and vigorous with her outdoor life, and used to such things from her infancy, stood a moment hesitating.  To be sure, the stile was rather high, yet she could have vaulted it nearly, if not quite, as easily as Bellew himself, had she been alone.  But then, she was not alone, moreover, be it remembered, this was in Arcadia of a mid-summer night.  Thus, she hesitated, only a moment, it is true, for, seeing the quizzical look in his eyes that always made her vaguely rebellious,—­with a quick, light movement, she mounted the stile, and there paused to shake her head in laughing disdain of his out-stretched hand; then—­there was the sound of rending cambric, she tripped, and, next moment, he had caught her in his arms.  It was for but a very brief instant that she lay, soft and yielding, in his embrace, yet she was conscious of how strong were the arms that held her so easily, ere they set her down.

“I beg your pardon!—­how awkward I am!” she exclaimed, in hot mortification.

“No,” said Bellew, shaking his head, “it was a nail, you know, a bent, and rusty nail,—­here, under the top bar.  Is your dress much torn?”

“Oh, that is nothing, thank you!”

So they went on again, but now they were silent once more, and very naturally, for Anthea was mightily angry,—­with herself, the stile, Bellew, and everything concerned; while he was thinking of the sudden, warm clasp of her arms, of the alluring fragrance of her hair, and of the shy droop of her lashes as she lay in his embrace.  Therefore, as he walked on beside her, saying nothing, within his secret soul he poured benedictions upon the head of that bent, and rusty nail.

And presently, having turned down a grassy lane and crossed a small but very noisy brook that chattered impertinences among the stones and chuckled at them slyly from the shadows, they eventually came upon a small, and very lonely little cottage bowered in roses and honeysuckle,—­as are all the cottages hereabouts.  But now Anthea paused, looking at Bellew with a dubious brow.

“I ought to warn you that Mrs. Dibbin is very old, and sometimes a little queer, and sometimes says very—­surprising things.”

“Excellent!” nodded Bellew, holding the little gate open for her, “very right and proper conduct in a witch, and I love surprises above all things.”