s and flung herself
against them, half-leaning, half-standing, over a rough cool curve of
grey granite, arms outstretched, eyes closed.

She was conscious of the fabric of her body as never before. She felt
her heart beating as a thing heavier and more powerful than the rest of
her frame; she was aware of the breath passing through the delicate skin
of her nostrils, of a faint, sweet aching in her thighs, of the
tenderness of her breast crushed against the rock, of the acuteness of
life beating in her outspread finger-tips against the rough granite and
in her toes pressed against the turf. She dropped to the ground and,
rolling over, stretched to utmost tension, then relaxed to limpness,
eyelids closed and the hair blowing upon them the only moving thing
about her. Then she scrambled to her feet again and set off towards
Cloom.

As she neared it she saw on the far slope a plough at work, looking like
a tiny toy, the horses a rich bright brown in the sunlight. Her strong
young eyes could see the darker blown mesh of their manes and the long
hair about their fetlocks; she could see, too, that the man in a faded
blue shirt and earth-coloured trousers driving them was John-James, for
even at that distance his sturdy build and the copper red of his broad
neck were unmistakable. She saw that the man standing talking by the
gate was Ishmael, and she stayed still, wondering if he would see and
recognise her. The tiny figure turned, stood staring, and then waved its
hat above its head; Georgie fluttered her handkerchief and turned off
down towards the stream at the bottom of the moor while Ishmael was
still watching.

It was warmer down by the stream than on the crest above, and the air
was as though filled with a bright sparkle with the refractions of the
sun from ripple and eddy. The stream was a mere thread of water, but
broken by stone and drooping bough to the semblance of urgency, and with
its mazy lights went a clear murmur of sound. Georgie took off her
little cloth jacket and threw herself down on the grassy slope that,
amidst a tangle of hemlock, edged the purling water. Between her and the
sunlight drooped an alder; she saw against the sun the showers of yellow
catkins all gleaming transparent, like sunlit raindrops caught at the
moment when they lengthen.... She lay under the glory of this Danaean
shower and half-closed her eyes to stare up at the wonder of it.
Presently she heard the sound of twigs and leaves bei