She had never felt lonely before, though her life ever since she had arrived at the Hall might be called one almost of solitude.
She had been so absorbed in the duties which had so suddenly fallen upon her young shoulders that there had been no time in which to feel the want of companionship.

There had always been something to think of, something to do; her father demanded so much attention; the house, the land, the farm--she had to look after them all; there had not been time to think even of herself; and it had never occurred to her that she was leading a life so different to that led by most girls.

But to-night the silence of the great house, large enough to hold fifty people, but sheltering only five persons--her father and herself and the three servants--weighed upon her.
That sense of loneliness had come upon her suddenly as she had watched the young man's retreating figure.

She could not help thinking of him even when her mind was oppressed with anxiety on her father's account.
In a vague way she remembered how kind this stranger had been; how quietly, and with what an air of protection, he had stood by her and restrained her from crying out and alarming her father.

As vaguely, she remembered that in the moment of her terror she had clung to him, had forgotten under the great strain that he was a stranger--and a man.
Even now she did not know his name, knew nothing of him except that he was staying at The Woodman Inn.
Kind and considerate as he had been she thought of him with something like resentment; it was as if he had stepped into her life, had intruded upon its quiet uneventfulness.