She was wrapped up grotesquely in his mackintosh; her hat was all bedraggled; her gloves dripped in his; and in spite of all he could have vowed that anything so lovely as that delicately cut, gravely smiling face, swaying above the rushing brown water, was never seen in Westmoreland wilds before.
'It is clearing,' he cried, with ready optimism, as they reached the bank.

'We shall get our picnic to-morrow after all--we _must_ get it! Promise me it shall be fine--and you will be there!' The vicar was only fifty yards away, waiting for them against the field gate.

But Robert held her eagerly, imperiously--and it seemed to her, her hold was still dizzy with the water.
'Promise!' he repeated, his voice dropping.
She could not stop to think of the absurdity of promising for Westmoreland weather.

She could only say faintly 'Yes!' and so release her hand.
'You _are_ pretty wet!' said the vicar, looking from one to the other with a curiosity which Robert's quick sense divined at once was directed to something else than the mere condition of their garments.

But Catherine noticed nothing; she walked on wrestling blindly with she knew not what, till they reached the vicarage gate.