was formulated, but still her first thought--had been one of relief that
now she need not tell her mother.

It had not occurred to her at all, nor did it now, that she either
should or should not tell her father.

CHAPTER VII

OUTSIDE THE LABYRINTH

The Black Rock woods lay glowing under the cloudy autumn sky like a heap
of live coals, the maples still quivering in scarlet, the chestnuts sunk
into a clear yellow flame, the oaks, parched by the September heat,
burnt out into rusty browns. Above them, the opalescent haze of October
rose like a faint blue smoke, but within the woods the subdued light was
richly colored, like that which passes through the stained glass of a
great cathedral. The first of the fallen leaves lay in pools of gold in
the hollows of the brown earth, where the light breezes had drifted
them.

It was, for the moment, singularly quiet, so, that, as Lydia walked
quickly along the footpath, the pleasant rustle of her progress was the
only sound she heard. Under a large chestnut she paused, gathering her
amber-colored draperies about her and glancing uncertainly ahead to
where the path forked. She looked a yellow leaf blown by some current of
the air unfelt by the rest of the forest and caught against the rough
bark of the tree. After hesitating for a moment, she drifted slowly
along the right-hand path, looking about her with dreamy, dazzled eyes.
From time to time, she stopped and lifted her face to the light and
color above her, and once she stood a long time leaning against a tree,
stirring with the tip of her parasol a heap of burning maple leaves.
Under her drooping hat her face was almost vacant in a wide beatitude of
harmony with the spirit of day. When she walked on again it was with a
lighter and lighter step, as though the silence had come to have a
lovely meaning for her which she feared to disturb.

The path turned sharply after passing through a thicket of ruddy
brambles, and she found herself in a little clearing which the haze of
the upper air descended to fill. The yellow chestnuts stood in a ring
about the sunburnt grass. It was like a golden cup filled with some
magic, impalpable draught.

Through this she now saw a rough little house, brown as an oak leaf,
with a wide veranda, under which, before a work-bench, sat Daniel
Rankin. His tanned arms moved rhythmically backward and forward, but his
ruddy head was high, and his eyes, roving about the leafy walls of the
clea