Nan made her way down the coombe’s steep side with feet that slipped and slid on the wet, shelving banks of mossy grass.  But at length she reached the level of the water and here her progress became more sure.  Further on, she knew, must be the footbridge which Barry had described—­probably beyond the sharp curve which lay just ahead of her.  She rounded the bend, then stopped abruptly, startled at seeing the figure of a man standing by the bank of the river.  He had his back towards her and seemed engrossed in his thoughts.  Almost instantly, however, as though subconsciously aware of her approach, he turned.

Nan stood quite still as he came towards her, limping a little.  She felt that if she moved she must surely stumble and fall.  The beating of her heart thundered in her ears and for a moment the river, and the steep sides of the coombe, and the figure of Peter Mallory himself all seemed to grow dim and vague as though seen through a thick mist.

“Nan!”

The dear, familiar voice, with an ineffable tenderness in its slow drawl, reached her even through the thrumming beat of her heart.

“Peter—­oh, Peter—­”

Her voice failed her, and the next moment they were shaking hands conventionally just as though they were two quite ordinary people with whom love had nothing to do.

“I didn’t know you were coming to-day,” she said, making a fierce effort to regain composure.

“I wired Kitty on the train.  Hasn’t she had the telegram?”

“Yes, I expect so.  Only I’ve been out all afternoon, so knew nothing about it.  And now I’ve lost my way!”

“Lost your way?”

“Yes.  I expected to find a footbridge round the corner.”

“It’s round the next one.  I sent the car on with my kit, and thought I’d walk up from the station.  So we’re both making for the same bridge.  It’s only about two minutes’ walk from here.”

They strolled on side by side, Peter rather silent, and each of them vibrantly conscious of the other’s nearness.  Suddenly Mallory pulled up and a quick exclamation broke from him as he pointed ahead.

“We’re done!  The bridge is gone!”

Nan’s eyes followed the direction of his hand.  Here the river ran more swiftly, and swollen by last nights storm of wind and rain, it had swept away the frail old footbridge which spanned it.  Only a few decayed sticks and rotten wooden stumps remained of what had once been known as the Lovers’ Bridge—­the trysting place of who shall say how many lovers in the days of its wooden prime?

Somehow a tinge of melancholy seemed to hang about the few scraps of wreckage.  How many times the little bridge must have tempted men and maidens to linger of a summer evening, dreaming the big dreams of youth—­visions which the spreading wings of Time bear away into the Land of Lost Desires.  Perhaps some kind hand garners them—­those tender, wonderful, courageous dreams of our wise youth and keeps them safely for us against the Day of Reckoning, so that they may weight the scales a little in our favour.