n the blackness. She came
in at the far end of the fields they called "the wild." A rose-leaf hue
tinged the white cloud-banks, which towered away to the east beyond
the river; and peeping over that mountain-top was the moon, fleecy and
unsubstantial in the flax-blue sky. It was one of nature's moments
of wild colour. The oak-trees above the hedgerows had not lost their
leaves, and in the darting, rain-washed light from the setting sun, had
a sheen of old gold with heart of ivy-green; the hail-stripped beeches
flamed with copper; the russet tufts of the ash-trees glowed. And past
Gyp, a single leaf blown off, went soaring, turning over and over, going
up on the rising wind, up--up, higher--higher into the sky, till it was
lost--away.

The rain had drenched the long grass, and she turned back. At the gate
beside the linhay, a horse was standing. It whinnied. Hotspur, saddled,
bridled, with no rider! Why? Where--then? Hastily she undid the latch,
ran through, and saw Summerhay lying in the mud--on his back, with eyes
wide-open, his forehead and hair all blood. Some leaves had dropped on
him. God! O God! His eyes had no sight, his lips no breath; his heart
did not beat; the leaves had dropped even on his face--in the blood on
his poor head. Gyp raised him--stiffened, cold as ice! She gave one
cry, and fell, embracing his dead, stiffened body with all her strength,
kissing his lips, his eyes, his broken forehead; clasping, warming him,
trying to pass life into him; till, at last, she, too, lay still, her
lips on his cold lips, her body on his cold body in the mud and the
fallen leaves, while the wind crept and rustled in the ivy, and went
over with the scent of rain. Close by, the horse, uneasy, put his head
down and sniffed at her, then, backing away, neighed, and broke into a
wild gallop round the field....

Old Pettance, waiting for Summerhay's return to stable-up for the night,
heard that distant neigh and went to the garden gate, screwing up his
little eyes against the sunset. He could see a loose horse galloping
down there in "the wild," where no horse should be, and thinking: "There
now; that artful devil's broke away from the guv'nor! Now I'll 'ave to
ketch 'im!" he went back, got some oats, and set forth at the best gait
of his stiff-jointed feet. The old horseman characteristically did not
think of accidents. The guv'nor had got off, no doubt, to unhitch that
heavy gate--the one you had to lift. That 'orse--he wa