“Oh, thank you!” sighed Cicely. “I don’t know what I should have done if you hadn’t stopped him. He’s frightfully pig-headed. It takes ages to make him start, and when once he’s got going he simply won’t stop—oh, no, Bill, don’t go and fight that dog, please!” She dropped the reins and hauled the departing bull-terrier back into the seat.

Her rescuer half-raised his cap.

“Glad to be of use. Dan Brown's pony, I think?”

“Yes,” nodded Cicely. “But I’d no idea how tiresome he was, or I’d never have hired him.” She smiled, and ran her eyes over him appraisingly.

He was fairly tall, and thick-set, with very broad shoulders, and a tanned face. Quite good-looking, she decided, and with a wonderfully square chin. Dogged and purposeful. And a grim mouth, too. Blue eyes that looked straight at you—almost steely. Cicely felt quite thrilled.

Under her frank scrutiny the man had flushed little, but his eyes held hers unwaveringly. Cicely was unabashed.

“Well, thanks very much,” she said. “And if you wouldn’t mind turning us round, I might get Timothy to walk back to the butcher’s.”

For the first time a hint of a smile crossed his face.

“I’ll lead you to the butcher's if you like.”

“Thanks awfully,” she said.

For a few minutes they proceeded in silence, while Cicely studied the back of the man’s head. Then he looked over his shoulder.

“I reckon you’re the girl who’s taken Miss Fletcher’s cottage?” he said.

Cicely nodded. “Yes. Do you live near?”

“Mortby Farm.”

“Do you really? Why, that’s just at the back of our cottage! Do come in and see us some time! And, oh, I should like to go over your farm. George—that’s the gardener, you know—say’s you’ve got the sweetest little pigs. Are you Mr. Talbot?”

“Fred Talbot. And you’re Miss Duncannon, I daresay?”

“No, that’s my friend. I’m Cicely Carruthers.”

“Oh!” said Talbot, and relapsed into silence. He spoke no more until they came to the butcher's shop. Then he released the pony’s rein, and again touched his cap.

“You’ll be all right now. Mean what you said about my coming in to see you?”

“Oh, rather!” said Cicely. She descended gingerly from the trap. Talbot made not effort to help her, but watched her with an amused air. “Come in to tea this afternoon. We’re fearfully bored. An’ then you can take us over your farm.”

She received a shock.

“Can’t manage it this afternoon, I’m afraid. Can I drop in tomorrow if I have time?”

“Oh, certainly,” said Cicely, not too pleased at this cavalier treatment. “Whenever you like. And. thanks so much for helping me with Timothy. Good-bye!” She extended a slim, gauntleted hand. It was crushed in a grip that made her wince.

“Not at all,” said Talbot. “Pleasure. Good-bye.”

Half an hour later Cicely walked into the living-room of her cottage, and nodded briskly at Maisie Duncannon, who was flipping over the pages of a novel.

“You missed something by not coming with me, Maisie,” she announced.