A Pixy in Petticoats by John Trevena

It was early morning when Burrough awoke. He had never intended going to sleep, but drowsiness had come, and he had succumbed to it. He blinked his eyes when the clear light met them, and wondered what was the meaning of the grey ruin which surrounded him. Then he remembered, and hastily pulled himself round. The bed of heather was empty. The little boots had disappeared from the broken hearthstone where turves still smoked and smouldered; and the satchel too was gone. Burrough looked about the ruin through the rents in its walls. A couple of horned sheep scampered away when they saw him; a shaggy pony stared with wild eyes. There was not a trace of Beatrice.

For a moment Burrough felt resentful. She might have waited for him, or at least have aroused him to say she was going, and that she preferred to depart alone. She was not the sort of girl who would care what the villagers said about her; yet for the sake of peace she would prefer they should not know how she had passed the night with him in the ruin of Steeperton Cleave. That no doubt was why she had wished to steal alone into the village before anyone would be astir. She had not disturbed him out of pity for his weariness. She had acted quite wisely. It was not her fault they had been stormbound; but the evil-thinking minds and slandering tongues of the villagers might very well determine that it had been his.