hope. This glory
would not last: colours would fade and flowers die, and so human life
itself would slip into a mingling of light and shadow, a pale confluence
of the two by which a man could see to dig a grave.

Helen leaned out again, trying to recover the sense of youth, of
boundless possibilities of happiness that should have been her sure
possession.

"Are you looking for Zebedee?" Mildred asked. "He doesn't come so
often."

"You don't need him. And he is busy. He isn't likely to come today."

Yet she wished ardently that he might, for though he would have no
tenderness to give her, he would revivify her by the vigour of his
being: she would see a man who had refused to let one misfortune cripple
him, and as though he had divined her need, he came.

"I had to go to Halkett's Farm," he explained.

"Who's ill there?" she asked sharply.

"The housekeeper."

"I hadn't heard. Is she very ill?"

"She may be."

"Then I hope she'll die," she said in a low voice.

"My dear!" He was startled into the words, and they made her laugh
openly for joy of knowing they were ready on his tongue. Lightly she
swayed towards him, but he held her off.

"No, no, my heart." He turned deliberately from her. "Why do you wish
that?"

"Because of Miriam. She ought to die."

"I'm afraid she won't. She's pretty tough."

"Is there anybody to look after her? I could go sometimes, if you like."

He smiled at this confusion of ministering and avenging angel.

"There's a servant there who seems capable enough."

"I wonder why George didn't tell me."

"She was all right yesterday."

"You'll have to see her tomorrow. Then you'll come here, too."

"There isn't any need."

"But Notya likes to see you. Come and see her now."

She sighed when they walked downstairs together as though things had
never changed. "Oh, Zebedee, I wanted you to come today. You have made
me feel clean again. Notya--oh--!" She shuddered. "She looks like some
fruit just hanging to a tree. Soon she will slip, and she doesn't care.
She doesn't think. And once she was like a blade, so bright and edged.
And when I looked at her this morning, I felt as if I were fattening
and rotting, too, and it wasn't spring any longer. It was autumn, and
everything was over-ripe."

"You don't take enough exercise," he said briskly. "Walk on the moor
every day. It's only fair to Jim. Read something stiff--philosophy, for
instance. It doesn't matter whether you understa