ects, ourselves--woven together--the world is dressed
in life! I understand Uncle Tod's feeling! If only it would rain till
they have to send these strike-breakers back because there's no hay worth
fighting about!' Suddenly her heart beat fast. The wicket gate had
clicked. There was something darker than the darkness coming along the
path! Scared, but with all protective instinct roused, she leaned out,
straining to see. A faint grating sound from underneath came up to her.
A window being opened! And she flew to her door. She neither barred it,
however, nor cried out, for in that second it had flashed across her:
'Suppose it's he! Gone out to do something desperate, as Tryst did!' If
it were, he would come up-stairs and pass her door, going to his room.
She opened it an inch, holding her breath. At first, nothing! Was it
fancy? Or was some one noiselessly rifling the room down-stairs? But
surely no one would steal of Uncle Tod, who, everybody knew, had nothing
valuable. Then came a sound as of bootless feet pressing the stairs
stealthily! And the thought darted through her, 'If it isn't he, what
shall I do?' And then--'What shall I do--if it IS!'

Desperately she opened the door, clasping her hands on the place whence
her heart had slipped down to her bare feet. But she knew it was he
before she heard him whisper: "Nedda!" and, clutching him by the sleeve,
she drew him in and closed the door. He was wet through, dripping; so
wet that the mere brushing against him made her skin feel moist through
its thin coverings.

"Where have you been? What have you been doing? Oh, Derek!"

There was just light enough to see his face, his teeth, the whites of his
eyes.

"Cutting their tent-ropes in the rain. Hooroosh!"

It was such a relief that she just let out a little gasping "Oh!" and
leaned her forehead against his coat. Then she felt his wet arms round
her, his wet body pressed to hers, and in a second he was dancing with
her a sort of silent, ecstatic war dance. Suddenly he stopped, went down
on his knees, pressing his face to her waist, and whispering: "What a
brute, what a brute! Making her wet! Poor little Nedda!"

Nedda bent over him; her hair covered his wet head, her hands trembled on
his shoulders. Her heart felt as if it would melt right out of her; she
longed so to warm and dry him with herself. And, in turn, his wet arms
clutched her close, his wet hands could not keep still on her. The