helplessly from one to the other, no longer trying to decide, waiting on
fate. So in Gyp that Sunday afternoon, doing little things all the
time--mending a hole in one of his gloves, brushing and applying ointment
to old Ossy, sorting bills and letters.

At five o'clock, knowing little Gyp must soon be back from her walk, and
feeling unable to take part in gaiety, she went up and put on her hat.
She turned from contemplation of her face with disgust. Since it was no
longer the only face for him, what was the use of beauty? She slipped
out by the side gate and went down toward the river. The lull was over;
the south-west wind had begun sighing through the trees again, and
gorgeous clouds were piled up from the horizon into the pale blue. She
stood by the river watching its grey stream, edged by a scum of torn-off
twigs and floating leaves, watched the wind shivering through the spoiled
plume-branches of the willows. And, standing there, she had a sudden
longing for her father; he alone could help her--just a little--by his
quietness, and his love, by his mere presence.

She turned away and went up the lane again, avoiding the inn and the
riverside houses, walking slowly, her head down. And a thought came, her
first hopeful thought. Could they not travel--go round the world? Would
he give up his work for that--that chance to break the spell? Dared she
propose it? But would even that be anything more than a putting-off? If
she was not enough for him now, would she not be still less, if his work
were cut away? Still, it was a gleam, a gleam in the blackness. She came
in at the far end of the fields they called "the wild." A rose-leaf hue
tinged the white cloud-banks, which towered away to the east beyond the
river; and peeping over that mountain-top was the moon, fleecy and
unsubstantial in the flax-blue sky. It was one of nature's moments of
wild colour. The oak-trees above the hedgerows had not lost their
leaves, and in the darting, rain-washed light from the setting sun, had a
sheen of old gold with heart of ivy-green; the hail-stripped beeches
flamed with copper; the russet tufts of the ash-trees glowed. And past
Gyp, a single leaf blown off, went soaring, turning over and over, going
up on the rising wind, up--up, higher--higher into the sky, till it was
lost--away.

The rain had drenched the long grass, and she turned back. At the gate
beside the linhay, a horse was standing. It whinnied. Hotspur,