Betty with her rein on her horse’s neck was thinking, wondering how it was that John Johnstone was always present to her mind, that her eyes sought him in the hunting-field, that those evenings were dull and lonely on which he did not come in for a chat with her father before supper-time, and all the world fell flat, stale and unprofitable, during various short absences of his, when he would disappear for three days together and none knew whither he went.

Betty’s horse had mounted the white hill at last, and now scoured swiftly away over the springy turf on the wide downs.

For miles she passed no human habitation, then Betty reached her destination.

Low in a hollow dip of the green grass sea nestled a small cottage.  No tree or bush within miles, the unbroken winds tore round it, the snow often banked up against it; but the owner, one of Mr. Ives’ pensioners, appeared to care little for wind or weather.

As Betty rode up, she sent her clear ringing voice before her: 

“Rachel!  Rachel Ray!”

Then paused suddenly, for fastened by the bridle to a low post close to the cottage door, she perceived a fine bay horse that she knew well.  She drew rein, swiftly debating within herself whether she should go on, or draw back, then shaking back her proud little head she rode forward.

Betty feared nothing on earth; should she be scared by the odd feeling in her heart that made it beat so fast and loud?  A thousand times no.

Before she had reached the cottage, the door opened, and a small troop of ragged children tumbled out to meet her, children with black elfin locks, and eyes gleaming like live coals, showing wild gipsy blood.

Betty leapt from her horse, and called the eldest boy to her side.

“Here, Reuben,” she said, “I will give you a silver penny if you hold Conrad steadily, and like a good boy, while I visit your grandmother.”  She opened the door with a slight knock and went in.  An odd sight met her eyes.

By the table stood the vigorous figure of old Rachel Ray, handsome yet, with the dark gipsy characteristics of her grandchildren—­before her the tall fine figure of John Johnstone in full hunting scarlet, just stooping in the act of giving her a kiss.

The old woman started, and pushed him aside when she saw Betty come in.  She advanced to meet her visitor, who stood during the space of a minute without advancing, so great was her astonishment.

“You are surprised to see an old woman kiss her nursling,” cried old Rachel.  “But it would be odd if he did not, bless his brave heart!”

“Not surprised at his kissing you, Dame Rachel,” said Betty, a little less steadily than usual.  “But I did not know that you were acquainted, I thought Mr. Johnstone was a stranger to this part of the world.”

The old woman turned her eyes on the young man, eyes brimming with burning tears, and with a look of entreaty in them.