When Maurice Mangan left the train at Winstead, and climbed out of the deep chalk cutting in which the station is buried, and emerged upon the open downs, he found himself in a very different world from that he had left.  Far away behind him lay the great city (even now the dusky dome of St. Paul’s was visible across the level swathes of landscape), with its miry ways and teeming population and continuous thunder of traffic; while here were the windy skies of a wild March morning and swaying trees and cawing rooks and air that was sweet in the nostrils and soft to the throat.  As he light-heartedly strode away across the undulations of blossoming gorse, fragments of song from his favorite poets chased one another through his brain; and somehow they were all connected with the glad opening out of the year—­“And then my heart with pleasure fills, and dances with the daffodils”—­“Along the grass sweet airs are blown, our way this day in spring”—­“And in the gloaming o’ the wood, the throssil whistled sweet”—­Mangan could sing no more than a crow; but he felt as if he were singing; there was a kind of music in the long stride, the quick pulse, the deep inhalations of the delicious air.  For all was going to be well now; he was about to consult Francie as to Lionel’s sad estate.  He did not stay to ask himself whether it were likely that a quiet and gentle girl, living in this secluded neighborhood, could be of much help in such a matter; it was enough that he was going to talk it all over with Miss Francie; things would be clearer then.

Now, as you go up from Winstead Station to Winstead Village, there is a strip of coppice that runs parallel with one part of the highway; and through this prolonged dingle a pathway meanders, which he who is not in a hurry may prefer to the road.  Of course Mangan chose this pleasanter way, though he had to moderate his pace now because of the briars; and right glad was he to notice the various symptoms of the new-born life of the world—­the pale anemones stirred by the warm, moist breeze, the delicate blossoms of the little wood-sorrel, the budded raceme of the wild hyacinth; while loud and clear a blackbird sang from a neighboring bough.  He did not expect to meet any one; he certainly did not expect to meet Miss Francie Wright, who would doubtless be away at her cottages.  But all of a sudden he was startled by the apparition of a rabbit that came running towards him, and then, seeing him, bolted off at right angles; and as this caused him to look up from his botanizings, here, unmistakably, was Miss Francie, coming along through the glade.  Her pale complexion showed a little color as she drew near; but there was not much embarrassment in the calm, kind eyes.

“This is indeed a stroke of good-fortune,” he said, “for I came down for the very purpose of having a talk with you all by yourself—­about Lionel.  But I did not imagine I should meet you here.”

“I am going down to the station,” she said.  “I expect a parcel by the train you must have come by; and I want it at once.”