e light-ghost of Spring passing
in this last violent outburst-painted the leaves of every tree; and a
hundred savage hues had come down like a motley of bright birds on moor
and fields.

The moment of desperate beauty caught Barbara by the throat. Its spirit
of galloping wildness flew straight into her heart. She clasped her
hands across her breast to try and keep that moment. Far out, a cuckoo
hooted-and the immortal call passed on the wind. In that call all the
beauty, and colour, and rapture of life seemed to be flying by. If she
could only seize and evermore have it in her heart, as the buttercups
out there imprisoned the sun, or the fallen raindrops on the sweetbriars
round the windows enclosed all changing light! If only there were no
chains, no walls, and finality were dead!

Her clock struck ten. At this time to-morrow! Her cheeks turned hot;
in a mirror she could see them burning, her lips scornfully curved, her
eyes strange. Standing there, she looked long at herself, till, little
by little, her face lost every vestige of that disturbance, became solid
and resolute again. She ceased to have the galloping wild feeling in her
heart, and instead felt cold. Detached from herself she watched, with
contentment, her own calm and radiant beauty resume the armour it had
for that moment put off.

After dinner that night, when the men left the dining-hall, Miltoun
slipped away to his den. Of all those present in the little church he
had seemed most unemotional, and had been most moved. Though it had
been so quiet and private a wedding, he had resented all cheap festivity
accompanying the passing of his young sister. He would have had that
ceremony in the little dark disused chapel at the Court; those two,
and the priest alone. Here, in this half-pagan little country church
smothered hastily in flowers, with the raw singing of the half-pagan
choir, and all the village curiosity and homage-everything had jarred,
and the stale aftermath sickened him. Changing his swallow-tail to an
old smoking jacket, he went out on to the lawn. In the wide darkness he
could rid himself of his exasperation.

Since the day of his election he had not once been at Monkland; since
Mrs. Noel's flight he had never left London. In London and work he had
buried himself; by London and work he had saved himself! He had gone
down into the battle.

Dew had not yet fallen, and he took the path across the fields. There
was no moon, no stars, no win