because we die and it's all over, and no one cares any more about our
little lives." On a sigh he heard her last words. "We mustn't struggle."

"Struggle?"

"For what we want."

To this he made no answer, but he had a strange feeling that the firm,
fine body he held was something more perishable than glass and might be
broken with a word.

He took her to the moor, but when they passed the empty house she would
not look at it.

"The stream does run through the garden," he said. "We could sail boats
on it." And he added thoughtfully, "We should have to dam it up
somewhere to make a harbour."

CHAPTER XIX

Disease fell heavily on the town that autumn and Zebedee and Helen had
to snatch their meetings hurriedly on the moor. She found that Miriam
was right and she had no difficulty and no shame in running out into the
darkness for a clasp of hands, a few words, a shadowy glimpse of Zebedee
by the light of the carriage lamps, while the old horse stood patiently
between the shafts and breathed visibly against the frosty night. Over
the sodden or frozen ground, the peat squelching or the heather stalks
snapping under her feet, she would make her way to that place where she
hoped to find her lover with his quick words and his scarce caresses
and, returning with the wind of the moor on her and eyes wide with
wonder and the night, she would get a paternal smile from Rupert and a
gibing word from Miriam, and be almost unaware of both. For weeks, her
days were only preludes to the short perfection of his presence and her
nights were filled with happy dreams: the eyes which had once been so
watchful over Mildred Caniper were now turned inwards or levelled on the
road; she went under a spell which shut out fear.

In December she was brought back to a normal world by the illness of
Mildred Caniper. One morning, without a word of explanation or
complaint, she went back to her bed, and Helen found her there, lying
inert and staring at the ceiling. She had not taken down her hair and
under the crown of it her face looked small and pinched, her eyes were
like blue pools threatening to over-run their banks.

"Is your head aching?" Helen said.

"I--don't think so."

"What is it, then?"

"I was afraid I could not--go on," she said carefully. "I was afraid of
doing something silly and I was giddy."

"Are you better now?"

"Yes. I want to rest."

"Try to sleep."

"It isn't sleep I want. It's rest, rest."

Helen