the thistles and things prick one's ankles abominably. Still, it's
lovely when you _do_ get there! I think I'll go now"--springing up from
the velvet turf--"before I get too lazy to move."

Gillian's eyes followed her thoughtfully as she made her way into the
house. She had never seen Magda so restless--she seemed unable to keep
still a moment.

Half an hour later Magda emerged from the house wrapped in a cloak,
a little scarlet bathing-cap turbanning her dark hair, and a pair of
sandals on the slim supple feet that had danced their way into the
hearts of half of Europe.

"Good-bye!" she called gaily, waving her hand. And went out by the
wicket gate leading into the fields.

There was not a soul in sight. Only the cows, their red, burnished
coats gleaming like the skin of a horse-chestnut in the hot sun,
cast ruminative glances at her white-cloaked figure as it passed, and
occasionally a peacefully grazing sheep emitted an astonished bleat at
the unusual vision and skedaddled away in a hurry.

Magda emulated Agag in her progress across the field which intervened
between the house and the river, now and then giving vent to a little
cry of protest as a particularly prickly thistle or hidden trail of
bramble whipped against her bare ankles.

At last from somewhere near at hand came the cool gurgle of running
water and, bending her steps in the direction of the sound, two minutes'
further walking brought her to the brink of the river. Further up
it came tumbling through the valley, leaping the rocks in a churning
torrent of foam, a cloud of delicate up-flung spray feathering the air
above it; but here there were long stretches of deep, smooth water
where no boulder broke the surface into spume, and quiet pools where fat
little trout heedlessly squandered the joyous moments of a precarious
existence.

Magda threw off her wrapper and, picking her way across the moss-grown
rocks, paused for an instant on the bank, her slender figure, clad in
its close-fitting scarlet bathing-suit, vividly outlined against the
surrounding green of the landscape. Then she plunged in and struck out
downstream, swimming with long, even strokes, the soft moorland water
laving her throat like the touch of a satin-smooth hand.

She was heading for a spot she knew of, a quarter of a mile below,
where a wooden bridge spanned the river and the sun's heat poured down
unchecked by sheltering trees. Here she proposed to scramble out and
bask in