The words stole upon him as from another sphere, startling him into dropping his book.  Duncan looked round.  Some one was standing by the rough stone dyke within a dozen yards of his summer-seat.  It was Grace Hutchison.

Duncan went towards the dyke, taking off his cap as he went—­a new cap.

So they stood there, the wall of rough hill-stones between them, but looking into one another’s eyes.

There was no merriment now in the eyes that met his, no word of the return of handkerchief or any maidenly coquetry.  The mood of the day of blowing leaves had passed away.  She had a shawl over her head, drawn close about her shoulders.  Underneath it her eyes were like night.  But her lips showed on her pale face like a geranium growing alone and looking westward in the twilight.

“You will pardon me, Mr. Rowallan,” she said, “if I have startled you.  I am grieved for what is happening—­more sorry than I can say—­my father thinks that it is his duty, but—­”

Duncan Rowallan did not suffer her to go on.

“Pray do not say a word about the matter, Miss Hutchison; believe that I do not mind at all.  I know well the conscientiousness of your father, and he is quite right to carry out his duty.”

“He has no quarrel against you,” said Grace.

“Only against my office,” said Duncan; “poor office!  If it were not for the peace of this countryside up here against the skies, I should go at once and be no barrier to the unanimity of the parish.”

She seemed to draw a long breath as his words came to her across the stone dyke.

“Ah,” she said, “I hope that you will not go; for if Howpaslet did not quarrel about you, it would just be something else.  But I am sorry you should be annoyed by our bickerings.”

“No one could be less annoyed,” said Duncan, smiling; “so perhaps it is to save some more sensitive person from suffering, that I have been sent here.”

They were very near to each other, these two young people, though the dyke was between them.  They leaned their elbows on it, turning together and looking down the valley.  A scent that was not the scent of flowers stole on Duncan Rowallan’s senses, quickening his pulses, and making him breathe faster to take it in.  He was very near the dark, bird-like head from which the June wind had blown the love-locks.  A balmy breath surrounded him like a halo—­the witchery of youth’s attraction, which is as old as Eden, ambient as the air.

Grace Hutchison may have felt it too, for she shuddered slightly, and drew her shawl closer about her shoulders.

“My father—­” she began, and paused.

“Please do not talk of these things,” said Duncan, the heart within him thrilling to the hinted womanhood which came to him upon the balmy breath; “I do not care for anything if you are not mine enemy.”

“I—­your enemy!” she said softly, with a pause between the words; “oh no, not that.”