Kaleidoscopic dreams of a weird alchemist-surgeon, Grammer Oliver's skeleton, and the face of Giles Winterborne, brought Grace Melbury to the morning of the next day.

It was fine.

A north wind was blowing--that not unacceptable compromise between the atmospheric cutlery of the eastern blast and the spongy gales of the west quarter.
She looked from her window in the direction of the light of the previous evening, and could just discern through the trees the shape of the surgeon's house.

Somehow, in the broad, practical daylight, that unknown and lonely gentleman seemed to be shorn of much of the interest which had invested his personality and pursuits in the hours of darkness, and as Grace's dressing proceeded he faded from her mind.
Meanwhile, Winterborne, though half assured of her father's favor, was rendered a little restless by Miss Melbury's behavior.

Despite his dry self-control, he could not help looking continually from his own door towards the timber-merchant's, in the probability of somebody's emergence therefrom.