the
river meadows towards Sneinton Hermitage and the steep scrap of Colwick
Wood. The floods were out. The silent water and the darkness spread away
on their left. Almost afraid, they hurried along by the houses.

Supper was laid. He swung the curtain over the window. There was a bowl
of freesias and scarlet anemones on the table. She bent to them. Still
touching them with her finger-tips, she looked up at him, saying:

"Aren't they beautiful?"

"Yes," he said. "What will you drink--coffee?"

"I should like it," she said.

"Then excuse me a moment."

He went out to the kitchen.

Miriam took off her things and looked round. It was a bare, severe
room. Her photo, Clara's, Annie's, were on the wall. She looked on
the drawing-board to see what he was doing. There were only a few
meaningless lines. She looked to see what books he was reading.
Evidently just an ordinary novel. The letters in the rack she saw
were from Annie, Arthur, and from some man or other she did not know.
Everything he had touched, everything that was in the least personal to
him, she examined with lingering absorption. He had been gone from her
for so long, she wanted to rediscover him, his position, what he was
now. But there was not much in the room to help her. It only made her
feel rather sad, it was so hard and comfortless.

She was curiously examining a sketch-book when he returned with the
coffee.

"There's nothing new in it," he said, "and nothing very interesting."

He put down the tray, and went to look over her shoulder. She turned the
pages slowly, intent on examining everything.

"H'm!" he said, as she paused at a sketch. "I'd forgotten that. It's not
bad, is it?"

"No," she said. "I don't quite understand it."

He took the book from her and went through it. Again he made a curious
sound of surprise and pleasure.

"There's some not bad stuff in there," he said.

"Not at all bad," she answered gravely.

He felt again her interest in his work. Or was it for himself? Why was
she always most interested in him as he appeared in his work?

They sat down to supper.

"By the way," he said, "didn't I hear something about your earning your
own living?"

"Yes," she replied, bowing her dark head over her cup. "And what of it?"

"I'm merely going to the farming college at Broughton for three months,
and I shall probably be kept on as a teacher there."

"I say--that sounds all right for you! You always wanted to be
independen