‘Nothing, sir.’‘Nothing?’‘Father is very well off, and we don't want anything.’‘But there must be some service I can render, some kindness, some votive offering which I could make, and so imprint on your memory as long as you live that I am not an ungrateful man?’‘Why should you be grateful to me, sir?’He shook his head. ‘Some things are best left unspoken. Now think. What would you like to have best in the world?’Margery made a pretence of reflecting — then fell to reflecting seriously; but the negative was ultimately as undisturbed as ever: she could not decide on anything she would like best in the world; it was too difficult, too sudden.‘Very well — don't hurry yourself. Think it over all day. I ride this afternoon. You live — where?’‘Silverthorn Dairy-house.’‘I will ride that way homeward this evening. Do you consider by eight o'clock what little article, what little treat you would most like of any.’‘I will, sir,’ said Margery, now warming up to the idea. ‘Where shall I meet you? Or will you call at the house, sir?’‘Ah — no. I should not wish the circumstances known out of which our acquaintance rose. It would be more proper — but no.’Margery, too, seemed rather anxious that he should not call. ‘I could come out, sir,’ she said. ‘My father is odd— tempered, and perhaps —’It was agreed that she should look over a stile at the top of her father's garden, and that he should ride along a bridle-path outside, to receive her answer. ‘Margery,’ said the gentleman in conclusion, ‘now that you have discovered me under ghastly conditions, are you going to reveal them, and make me an object for the gossip of the curious?’‘No, no, sir!’ she replied earnestly. ‘Why should I do that?’ ‘You will never tell?’‘Never, never will I tell what has happened here this morning.’ ‘Neither to your father, nor to your friends, nor to any one?’