and lusty like little trees and
like boys with fat legs."

Clara's hat lay on the grass not far off. She was kneeling, bending
forward still to smell the flowers. Her neck gave him a sharp pang, such
a beautiful thing, yet not proud of itself just now. Her breasts swung
slightly in her blouse. The arching curve of her back was beautiful and
strong; she wore no stays. Suddenly, without knowing, he was scattering
a handful of cowslips over her hair and neck, saying:

"Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust,
If the Lord won't have you the devil must."

The chill flowers fell on her neck. She looked up at him, with almost
pitiful, scared grey eyes, wondering what he was doing. Flowers fell on
her face, and she shut her eyes.

Suddenly, standing there above her, he felt awkward.

"I thought you wanted a funeral," he said, ill at ease.

Clara laughed strangely, and rose, picking the cowslips from her hair.
She took up her hat and pinned it on. One flower had remained tangled in
her hair. He saw, but would not tell her. He gathered up the flowers he
had sprinkled over her.

At the edge of the wood the bluebells had flowed over into the field and
stood there like flood-water. But they were fading now. Clara strayed up
to them. He wandered after her. The bluebells pleased him.

"Look how they've come out of the wood!" he said.

Then she turned with a flash of warmth and of gratitude.

"Yes," she smiled.

His blood beat up.

"It makes me think of the wild men of the woods, how terrified they
would be when they got breast to breast with the open space."

"Do you think they were?" she asked.

"I wonder which was more frightened among old tribes--those bursting out
of their darkness of woods upon all the space of light, or those from
the open tiptoeing into the forests."

"I should think the second," she answered.

"Yes, you DO feel like one of the open space sort, trying to force
yourself into the dark, don't you?"

"How should I know?" she answered queerly.

The conversation ended there.

The evening was deepening over the earth. Already the valley was full of
shadow. One tiny square of light stood opposite at Crossleigh Bank Farm.
Brightness was swimming on the tops of the hills. Miriam came up slowly,
her face in her big, loose bunch of flowers, walking ankle-deep through
the scattered froth of the cowslips. Beyond her the trees were coming
into shape, all shadow.

"Shall we go?" she asked.

And