cured by sunlight.

The stealthy movements of the animals, the dripping of the water, were
the only sounds. To Maggie the house seemed to say something, something
comforting and reassuring.

Standing there, she registered her vow that through all her life she
would care for no one. No one should touch her.

Had there been an observer he might have found some food for his irony
in the contemplation of that small, insignificant figure so ignorant of
life and so defiant of it. He would have found perhaps something
pathetic also. Maggie thought neither of irony nor of pathos, but
turned homewards with her mouth set, her eyes grave, her heart
controlled.

As she walked back the sun broke through the mist, and, turning, she
could see Borhedden like a house on fire, its windows blazing against
the sky.

It was natural that her aunt should wish to return to London as soon as
possible. For one thing, Ellen the cook had packed her clothes and
retired to some place in the village, there to await the departure of
the defeated family. Then the house was not only unpleasant by reason
of its atmosphere and associations, but there were also the definite
discomforts of roofs through which the rain dripped and floors that
swayed beneath one's tread. Moreover, Aunt Elizabeth did not care to be
left alone in the London house.

Uncle Mathew left on the day after the funeral. He had one little last
conversation with Maggie.

"I hope you'll be happy in London," he said.

"I hope so," said Maggie.

"I know you'll do what you can to help your aunts." Then he went on
more nervously. "Think of me sometimes. I shan't be able to come and
see you very often, you know--too busy. But I shall like to know that
you're thinking about me."

Maggie's new-found resolution taken so defiantly upon the moor was
suddenly severely tested. She felt as though her uncle were leaving her
to a world of enemies. She drove down her sense of desolation, and he
saw nothing but her quiet composure.

"Of course I'll think of you," she answered. "And you must come often."

"They don't like me," he said, nodding his head towards where Aunt Anne
might be supposed to be waiting. "It's not my fault altogether--but
they have severe ideas. It's religion, of course."

She suddenly seemed to see in his eyes some terror or despair, as
though he knew that he was going to drop "this time"--farther than ever
before.

She caught his arm. "Uncle Mathew, what are you go