ve up to the farm with a message for Maggie. He had
told her not to expect him that night. He would call and see her very
early in the morning. That would prepare her for the end. In the morning
he would call and say good-bye to her.

He had taken that resolution on the night when Gardner had told him about
Peggy.

He did not sleep. He heard all the sounds of the land, of the river, of
the night, and of the dawn. He heard the lapping of the creek water
against the yacht's side; the wash of the steamers passing on the river;
the stir of wild fowl at daybreak; the swish of wind and water among the
reeds and grasses of the creek.

All night he thought of Peggy, who would not live, who was the child of
her father's passion and her mother's grief.

At dawn he got up. It was a perfect day, with the promise of warmth in
it. Over land and water the white mist was lifting and drifting,
eastwards towards the risen sun. Inland, over the five fields, the drops
of fallen mist glittered on the grass. The Farm, guarded by its three
elms, showed clear, and red, and still, as if painted under an unchanging
light. A few leaves, loosened by the damp, were falling with a shivering
sound against the house wall, and lay where they fell, yellow on the
red-brick path.

Maggie was not at the garden gate. She sat crouched inside, by the
fender, kindling a fire. Tea had been made and was standing on the table.
She was waiting.

She rose, with a faint cry, as Majendie entered. She put her arms on his
shoulders in her old way. He loosened her hands gently and held her by
them, keeping her from him at arm's length. Her hands were cold, her
eyes had foreknowledge of the end; but, moved by his touch, her mouth
curled unaware and shaped itself for kissing.

He did not kiss her. And she knew.

Upstairs in the bedroom overhead, Steve and his mother moved heavily.
There was a sound of drawers opening and shutting, then a grating sound.
Something was being dragged from under the bed. Maggie knew that they
were packing Majendie's portmanteau with the things he had left behind
him.

They stood together by the hearth, where the fire kindled feebly. He
thrust out his foot, and struck the woodpile; it fell and put out the
flame that was struggling to be born.

"I'm sorry, Maggie," he said.

Maggie stooped and built up the pile again and kindled it. She knelt
there, patient and humble, waiting for the fire to burn.

He did not know whether he was