He was at the farther end of the room, with his back turned to her, stooping down over his desk.

What was he doing?
What a singular attitude he was in! Then, all in a moment, Hilda's heart seemed to stop beating, and her breath came thick and short; for she saw that this man before her was not the farmer.

The farmer had not long elf-locks of black hair straggling over his coat-collar; he was not round-shouldered or bow-legged; above all, he would not be picking the lock of his own desk, for this was what the man before her was doing.
Silent as her own shadow, Hildegarde slipped back into the hall and stood still a moment, collecting her thoughts.

What should she do?
Call Dame Hartley?
The "poor dear" was suffering much, and why should she be disturbed?
Run to find the farmer?
She might have to run all over the farm! No; she would attend to this herself.

She was not in the least afraid.