rejoiced to see her
on the ground, her little figure twisted with her fall, but he did not
follow her. He went home in the rain that was now falling fast, and when
the mare was stabled he brewed himself a drink that brought oblivion.

CHAPTER XXIII

Helen waked, that night, from a short deep sleep, to hear the falling of
heavy rain and sharp gusts of wind that bowed the poplars. As the storm
strengthened, raindrops were blown on to her pillow, and she could hear
the wind gathering itself up before it swept moaning across the moor and
broke with a miserable cry against the walls. She hoped Mildred Caniper
slept through a wailing that might have a personal note for her, and as
she prepared to leave the room and listen on the landing, she thought
she heard a new sound cutting through the swish of the rainfall and the
shriek of wind. It was a smaller sound, as though a child were alone and
crying in the night, and she leaned from her window to look into the
garden. The rain wetted her hair and hands and neck, while she stared
into varying depths of blackness--the poplars against the sky, the lawn,
like water, the close trees by the wall--and as she told herself that
the wind had many voices, she heard a loud, unwary sob and the impact of
one hard substance on another.

Some one was climbing the garden wall, and a minute later a head rose
above the scullery roof. It was Miriam, crying, with wet clothes
clinging to her, and Helen called out softly.

"Oh, is that you?" she answered, and laughed through a tangled breath.
"I'm drenched."

"Wait! I'll go into Phoebe and help you through."

"There's a chair here. I left it. I'm afraid it's ruined!"

Helen entered the other room as Miriam dropped from the window-ledge to
the floor.

"Don't make a noise. We mustn't wake her. Oh, oh, you look--you look
like rags!"

Miriam sat limply; she shook with cold and sobs and laughter. Water
dripped from every part of her, and when Helen helped her up, all the
streams became one river.

Helen let go of the cold hands and sank to the bed. "There must be
gallons of it! And you--!"

"I'm frozen. Mop it up. Towels--anything. I'll fling my clothes out of
the window. They are quite used to the scullery roof."

"Speak quietly. Whisper. She may hear you!"

"That would be--the devil, wouldn't it? Good thing Rupert isn't here!
Put something at the bottom of the door. Lock it. My fingers are numb.
Oh, dear, oh, dear, I can't undo