ome into the road to meet her and
would give her nervous, absent-minded greetings. Then she would draw her
into the furthest edge of the pavement, because the blind have such
sharp hearing, and she would whisper:

"Have you heard from _him_ lately?"

"No."

"He's still at Dawlish?"

"They say so."

"Do you think he will ever come back?"

"No. He will never come back."

"Ah." She would stand looking past Marion with her face cat's-pawed by
memory and her fingers teasing the fringe of her shawl, till from the
garden the blind old man would cry lovingly and querulously, "Trixy,
where are you?" and she would answer, "Coming, dearie." As she turned
away she would murmur: "I shouldn't like him to come back...."

Poor Trixy Cliffe! She should have known only the sorrow of pure
femalehood, such sorrow as makes the eyes of heifers soft. Women like
her should be harvested like corn in their time of ripening, stored in
good homes as in sound barns, and ground in the mill of wifehood and
motherhood into the flour that makes the bread by which the people live.
But there must have been some beauty working in her soul, for Peacey
went only where he saw some opportunity to cancel some movement towards
the divine, being a missionary spirit. So she had been delivered over to
that terror which survived for ever. Even in the exorcised blue
territory of a good old woman's eyes. "Oh, poor Trixy, poor Trixy!"
moaned Marion, weeping. But it struck her that she was enjoying herself,
and she sat up rigidly and searched her soul for the smuggled
insincerity. "I must be lying," she said aloud with loathing. "I really
cannot be pitying Trixy Cliffe because in my heart of hearts I care for
no one but Richard. I would knead the flesh of anyone on earth and bake
it in the oven if that were the only food I could give him. What am I
doing this for? Ah, I see. I am hanging about this fictitious emotion
simply because I do not wish to go on and remember Roger." She held out
her hands into the blackness and cried out, "Oh, Roger, forgive me for
shutting you out of my memory as I have shut you out of everything else.
I will remember everything, I will!" She lay down and let all pictures
reappear before her eyes, but her mouth was drawn down at the corners.

CHAPTER V

It was no use wondering now whether or not Peacey had really murmured
"Good day, ma'am," as they parted at the door of the church after their
furtive marriage. She had cer