pened it and looked out, half-expecting to find that
she had disappeared. But I saw her a few yards off, hurrying across the
court-yard to the path through the woods. Her figure looked black and
lonely in the snow, and for a second my heart failed me and I thought
of turning back. But all the while she was drawing me after her; and
catching up an old shawl of Mrs. Blinder's I ran out into the open.

Emma Saxon was in the wood-path now. She walked on steadily, and I
followed at the same pace, till we passed out of the gates and reached
the high-road. Then she struck across the open fields to the village.
By this time the ground was white, and as she climbed the slope of a
bare hill ahead of me I noticed that she left no foot-prints behind
her. At sight of that, my heart shrivelled up within me, and my knees
were water. Somehow, it was worse here than indoors. She made the whole
countryside seem lonely as the grave, with none but us two in it, and
no help in the wide world.

Once I tried to go back; but she turned and looked at me, and it was as
if she had dragged me with ropes. After that I followed her like a dog.
We came to the village, and she led me through it, past the church and
the blacksmith's shop, and down the lane to Mr. Ranford's. Mr.
Ranford's house stands close to the road: a plain old-fashioned
building, with a flagged path leading to the door between box-borders.
The lane was deserted, and as I turned into it, I saw Emma Saxon pause
under the old elm by the gate. And now another fear came over me. I saw
that we had reached the end of our journey, and that it was my turn to
act. All the way from Brympton I had been asking myself what she wanted
of me, but I had followed in a trance, as it were, and not till I saw
her stop at Mr. Ranford's gate did my brain begin to clear itself. It
stood a little way off in the snow, my heart beating fit to strangle
me, and my feet frozen to the ground; and she stood under the elm and
watched me.

I knew well enough that she hadn't led me there for nothing. I felt
there was something I ought to say or do--but how was I to guess what
it was? I had never thought harm of my mistress and Mr. Ranford, but I
was sure now that, from one cause or another, some dreadful thing hung
over them. _She_ knew what it was; she would tell me if she could;
perhaps she would answer if I questioned her.

It turned me faint to think of speaking to her; but I plucked up heart
and dragged mys