The day, as she had prognosticated, turned out fine; for weather-wisdom was imbibed¹ with their milk-sops by the children of the Exe Vale. The impending² meeting excited Margery, and she performed her duties in her father’s house with mechanical unconsciousness.

Milking, skimming, cheesemaking were done. Her father was asleep in the settle, the milkmen and maids were gone home to their cottages, and the clock showed a quarter to eight. She dressed herself with care, went to the top of the garden, and looked over the stile. The view was eastward³, and a great moon hung before her in a sky which had not a cloud. Nothing was moving except on the minutest scale, and she remained leaning over, the night-hawk sounding his croud from the bough⁴ of an isolated⁵ tree on the open hill side.

Here Margery waited till the appointed time had passed by three-quarters of an hour; but no Baron⁶ came. She had been full of an idea, and her heart sank with disappointment. Then at last the pacing of a horse became audible on the soft path without, leading up from the water-meads, simultaneously⁷ with which she beheld⁸ the form of the stranger, riding home, as he had said.

The moonlight so flooded her face as to make her very conspicuous⁹ in the garden-gap. ‘Ah my maiden¹⁰ — what is your name — Margery!’ he said. ‘How came you here? But of course I remember — we were to meet. And it was to be at eight — proh pudor! — I have kept you waiting!’

‘It doesn’t matter, sir. I’ve thought of something.’

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