lover of nature; wildflowers, especially
cowslips, affected her more than she would care to own; the scent of
hay brought a longing to her heart; the sight of a roadside stream
fascinated her. Now, she was longing with a passionate desire for the
peace of the country. Upon this July evening, the corn must now be all
but ripe for the sickle, making the fields a glory of gold. She
pictured herself wandering alone in a vast expanse of these; gold,
gold, everywhere; a lark singing overhead. Then, in imagination, she
found her way to a nook by the Avon at Melkbridge, a spot endeared to
her heart by memories that she would never forget. As a child, she
loved to steal there with her picture book; later, as a little girl,
she would go there all alone, and, lying on her back, would dream,
while her eyes followed the sun. Her fondness for this place was the
only thing which she had kept from her father's knowledge. She wondered
if this hiding place, where she had loved to take her thoughts, were
the same. She could shut her eyes and recall it: the pollard willows,
the brown river banks, the swift, running river in which the
forget-me-nots (so it appeared to her) never seemed to tire in the
effort to see their reflection.

Darkness came out of the east. Mavis's heart went out to the summer
night. Then, she was aware of a feeling of physical discomfort. The
effort of imagination had exhausted her. She became wearily conscious
of the immediate present. The last post, this time, knocked at the door
of Mrs Ellis', but it brought no letter for Mavis. It seemed that the
world had no need of her; that no one cared what became of her. She was
disinclined to go out, consequently, the limitations of her
surroundings made her quickly surrender to the feeling of desolation
which attacked her. She wondered how many girls in London were, at the
present moment, isolated from all congenial human companionship as she
was. She declined the landlady's kindly offer to partake of cold boiled
beef and spring onions in the status of guest; the girl seemed to get
satisfaction from her morbid indulgence in self-pity.

As she was about to undress, her eye fell on the Bible which Helen Mee
had given her earlier in the day. Mavis remembered something had been
written on the fly-leaf: more from idle curiosity than from any other
motive, she opened the cover of the book, to read in the old lady's
meager, pointed hand:

"Are not two sparrows sold for a farth