if help were to be afforded it must be at once.
The young workman hesitated for a moment, and then half turned away his head, but the vicar ran forward as the maiden in distress cried sharply —
“Oh Daisy, Daisy, what shall I do?”
“Let me help you out,” said the vicar, smiling. “Why, it is soft here,” he cried, as he went in over his knees, but got one foot on a tuft of dry heath and dragged out the other, to plant it upon a patch of grass. “Don’t be alarmed. There, both hands on my shoulder. That’s right. Hold tight, I’ve got you. Why you were sinking fast, and planting yourself as a new kind of marsh flower – and – there, don’t shrink away, or we shall be both planted – to blossom side by side. It is soft – that’s better – now lean all your weight on me, my dear – not that you’re heavy – now I have you – steady it is – that’s better.”
As he kept up this running fire of disconnected words, he contrived to drag the girl out of the soft bog, placing his arm well round her waist, and then carried her in his arms, stepping cautiously from tussock to tussock till he placed her blushing and trembling beside her companion, who had retreated to the firm ground.
“Oh, thank you. I am so much obliged,” stammered the girl, as her long lashes were lowered over her pretty hazel eyes, which shrank from the honest admiring gaze directed upon them.
And truly there was something to admire in the pretty, innocent, girlish face with its creamy complexion, and wavy dark brown hair, several little tresses of which had been blown loose by the breeze on the hill-side.
She was very plainly dressed, and wore a simple coarse straw hat, but there was an air of refinement about her which, before she opened her lips, told the new vicar that he was in the presence of one who had been born in a sphere of some culture.
Not so her companion, who, though as well favoured by nature, was cast in quite another mould. Plump, peachy, and rounded of outline, she was a thorough specimen of the better class English cottage girl, spoiled by her parents, and imbued with a knowledge that she was the pretty girl of the place.
“I am so much obliged – it was so good of you,” stammered the heroine of the bog.
“Not at all, my dear; don’t mention it,” said the vicar, in a quiet way that helped to put the discomfited maiden at her ease. “I see: gathering bog-flowers and went too far. For shame,” he continued, loudly. “You, a county young lady, and not to know it was dangerous to go where the cotton rushes grow. You wanted some, eh? Yes, and left the basket out there – half full.”
“Oh, pray don’t go – never mind the basket – it does not matter,” faltered the girl; but the vicar was already stepping from tussock to tussock, ending by hooking up the basket with his stick, and pausing to pick some of the best silky topped rushes within his reach.
“There,” he said, returning the basket and its contents; “there are your cotton rushes – earth’s fruit. I ought to scold you for behaving like a daughter of Eve, and trying to get what you ought not to touch.”
The girl crimsoned to the roots of her hair at the word Eve, and exchanged glances with her companion, who was standing before her, looking hot, frowning, and cross, with her eyes fixed on the ground, and her nose in the air, as if being scourged by the angry look directed at her by the young workman, who stood a few yards off scowling, with his hands thrust into the very bottoms of his pockets.
“I did not think the bog was so treacherous,” said the girl, stealing a look at the frank, manly face before her. “It looked so safe.”
“So do many things in this world, my dear; but you must not trust them any the more for their fair seeming.”
The girl started a little, and looked indignant at the familiar way in which she was addressed by so young a man – a perfect stranger. She had already tried to sting him in the bog with two or three furious darts from her bright eyes for daring to put his arms round her. In fact she had felt for a moment that she would rather sink into the earth than be touched like that, but she was helpless and had to resign herself to her fate.
“Ah!” said the vicar, “you are looking angry at me for speaking in such a free way.”
“I – I indeed – I – ”
“Ah, my dear, I can read that pretty innocent face of yours like a book. There – there – don’t blush so. We are strangers: well, let’s be strangers no more. Let me introduce myself. I am Murray Selwood, your new parson, and you are – ?”
“Eve Pelly – Mrs Glaire’s – ”
“Niece. I know, my dear. Very, very glad to make your acquaintance. You see I know something about the place, though I have not been there yet.”
As he spoke he took the timidly extended hand and gave it a warm, frank pressure, which again heightened the blush; but in a few moments Eve Pelly felt more at her ease in the presence of this stranger, who, with all his freedom, had an atmosphere of gentlemanly truth and candour which won upon all with whom he came in contact.
“Now,” he said, “you must introduce me to my other little friend here. Who is this?”
“This is Daisy Banks, Mr Selwood. Mr Banks is my aunt’s foreman at the Foundry. Daisy comes with me sometimes when I go for a walk. We have known each other from children.”
“To be sure,” said the vicar, smiling. “I might have known your name was Daisy. Shake hands, my dear. You’ll never change that name, but some day you’ll be coming to me to change the other for you.”
“Which I’m sure I never shall,” cried Daisy, with an indignant stamp, and a hot angry glance at the young workman, who ground his teeth, and savagely kicked the top off a tuft of heather.
“Don’t be angry, my dear,” said the vicar, kindly, as, red-faced, choking, and hardly able to restrain her angry tears, the girl snatched away her hand and turned away.
“It’s one of my weaknesses to touch tender chords unwittingly,” he said in a low tone to Eve; and, how it was she knew not, the girl felt herself drawn into a feeling of confidence with this stranger, who, however, half affronted her susceptibilities the next moment by saying,
“But come, you must not stand here with wet feet. If you were a sister of mine I should make you take off those dripping boots.”
“They are not wet – not very wet,” she stammered, correcting herself.
“I think I know,” said the vicar, smiling. “But come, you must walk home sharply. I’m a bit of a doctor in my way. You won’t mind my company, I hope. We must be very good friends.”
“I’m sure we shall,” said Eve, frankly, as she glanced once more at her companion, and the next minute he was chatting to her about the contents of her basket.
“Then you understand botany?” she said, eagerly, and he looked down with pleasure at the bright, animated countenance at his side.
“Oh, yes, a little. And you do, I see?”
“Oh, a very little,” said Eve; “the hard Latin words are so puzzling.”
“But you can learn plenty of botany without troubling yourself over the long names; they will come to you imperceptibly.”
Meanwhile Daisy, who had been forgotten,
