er head up and down--as the head of one moves that is
gasping her last--waiting for breath--breath and strength to let go life,
to slip down into the grey water. And that queer apartness from self,
which is the property of fever, came on her, so that she seemed to see
herself sitting there, waiting, and thought: 'I shall see myself dead,
floating among the reeds. I shall see the birds wondering above me!'
And, suddenly, she broke into a storm of dry sobbing, and all things
vanished from her, save just the rocking of her body, the gasping of her
breath, and the sound of it in her ears. Her boy--her boy--and his poor
hair! "Away, my rolling river!" Swaying over, she lay face down,
clasping at the wet grass and the earth.

The sun rose, laid a pale bright streak along the water, and hid himself
again. A robin twittered in the willows; a leaf fell on her bare ankle.

Winton, who had been hunting on Saturday, had returned to town on Sunday
by the evening tram, and gone straight to his club for some supper.
There falling asleep over his cigar, he had to be awakened when they
desired to close the club for the night. It was past two when he reached
Bury Street and found a telegram.

"Something dreadful happened to Mr. Summerhay. Come quick.--BETTY."

Never had he so cursed the loss of his hand as during the time that
followed, when Markey had to dress, help his master, pack bags, and fetch
a taxi equipped for so long a journey. At half-past three they started.
The whole way down, Winton, wrapped in his fur coat, sat a little forward
on his seat, ready to put his head through the window and direct the
driver. It was a wild night, and he would not let Markey, whose chest
was not strong, go outside to act as guide. Twice that silent one,
impelled by feelings too strong even for his respectful taciturnity, had
spoken.

"That'll be bad for Miss Gyp, sir."

"Bad, yes--terrible."

And later:

"D'you think it means he's dead, sir?"

Winton answered sombrely:

"God knows, Markey! We must hope for the best."

Dead! Could Fate be cruel enough to deal one so soft and loving such a
blow? And he kept saying to himself: "Courage. Be ready for the worst.
Be ready."

But the figures of Betty and a maid at the open garden gate, in the
breaking darkness, standing there wringing their hands, were too much for
his stoicism. Leaping out, he cried:

"What is it, woman? Quick!"

"Oh, sir! My dear's gone. I left her