`It was not exactly the fault of the hut,' she observed in a tone which showed her to be that novelty among women - one who finished a thought before beginning the sentence which was to convey it. `You should, I think, have considered, and not have been so foolish as to leave the slides closed.'

`Yes, I suppose I should,' said Oak absently. He was endeavouring to catch and appreciate the sensation of being thus with her, his head upon her dress, before the event passed on into the heap of bygone things. He wished she knew his impressions; but he would as soon have thought of carrying an odour in a net as of attempting to convey the intangibilities of his feeling in the coarse meshes of language. So he remained silent.

She made him sit up, and then Oak began wiping his face and shaking himself like a Samson. `How can I thank 'ee?' he mid at last gratefully, some of the natural, rusty red having returned to his face.

`Oh, never mind that,' mid the girl, smiling, and allowing her smile to hold good for Gabriel's next remark, whatever that might prove to be.

`How did you find me?'

`I heard your dog howling and scratching at the door of the hut when I came to the milking (it was so lucky, Daisy's milking is almost over for the season, and I shall not come here after this week or the next). The dog saw me, and jumped over to me, and laid hold of my skirt. I came across and looked round the hut the very first thing to see if the slides were closed. My uncle has a hut like this one, and I have heard him tell his shepherd not to go to sleep without leaving a slide open. I opened the door, and there you were like dead. I threw the milk over you, as there was no water, forgetting it was warm, and no use.'

`I wonder if I should have died?' Gabriel said in a low voice, which was rather meant to travel back to himself than to her.

`O no!' the girl replied. She seemed to prefer a less tragic probability; to have saved a man from death involved talk that should harmonize with the dignity of such a deed - and she shunned it.

`I believe you saved my Me, Miss - I don't know your name. I know your aunt's, but not yours.

`I would just as soon not tell it - rather not. There is no reason either why I should, as you probably will never have much to do with me.'

`Still I should like to know.'

`You can inquire at my aunt's - she will tell you.'

`My name is Gabriel Oak.'

`And mine isn't. You seem fond of yours in speaking it so decisively, Gabriel Oak.'

`You see, it is the only one I shall ever have, and I must make the most of it.'

`I always think mine sounds odd and disagreeable.'

`I should think you might soon get a new one.'

`Mercy! - how many opinions you keep about you concerning other people, Gabriel Oak.'

`Well, Miss - excuse the words - I thought you would like them. But I can't match you, I know, in mapping out my mind upon my tongue. I never was very clever in my inside. But I thank you. Come, give me your hand!'