with Arthur was a double pain to her—­mingling with the tumult of passion and vanity there was a dim undefined fear that the future might shape itself in some way quite unlike her dream.  She clung to the comforting hopeful words Arthur had uttered in their last meeting—­“I shall come again at Christmas, and then we will see what can be done.”  She clung to the belief that he was so fond of her, he would never be happy without her; and she still hugged her secret—­that a great gentleman loved her—­with gratified pride, as a superiority over all the girls she knew.  But the uncertainty of the future, the possibilities to which she could give no shape, began to press upon her like the invisible weight of air; she was alone on her little island of dreams, and all around her was the dark unknown water where Arthur was gone.  She could gather no elation of spirits now by looking forward, but only by looking backward to build confidence on past words and caresses.  But occasionally, since Thursday evening, her dim anxieties had been almost lost behind the more definite fear that Adam might betray what he knew to her uncle and aunt, and his sudden proposition to talk with her alone had set her thoughts to work in a new way.  She was eager not to lose this evening’s opportunity; and after tea, when the boys were going into the garden and Totty begged to go with them, Hetty said, with an alacrity that surprised Mrs. Poyser, “I’ll go with her, Aunt.”

It did not seem at all surprising that Adam said he would go too, and soon he and Hetty were left alone together on the walk by the filbert-trees, while the boys were busy elsewhere gathering the large unripe nuts to play at “cob-nut” with, and Totty was watching them with a puppylike air of contemplation.  It was but a short time—­hardly two months—­since Adam had had his mind filled with delicious hopes as he stood by Hetty’s side un this garden.  The remembrance of that scene had often been with him since Thursday evening:  the sunlight through the apple-tree boughs, the red bunches, Hetty’s sweet blush.  It came importunately now, on this sad evening, with the low-hanging clouds, but he tried to suppress it, lest some emotion should impel him to say more than was needful for Hetty’s sake.

“After what I saw on Thursday night, Hetty,” he began, “you won’t think me making too free in what I’m going to say.  If you was being courted by any man as ’ud make you his wife, and I’d known you was fond of him and meant to have him, I should have no right to speak a word to you about it; but when I see you’re being made love to by a gentleman as can never marry you, and doesna think o’ marrying you, I feel bound t’ interfere for you.  I can’t speak about it to them as are i’ the place o’ your parents, for that might bring worse trouble than’s needful.”

Adam’s words relieved one of Hetty’s fears, but they also carried a meaning which sickened her with a strengthened foreboding.  She was pale and trembling, and yet she would have angrily contradicted Adam, if she had dared to betray her feelings.  But she was silent.