ned her, and
the crying of the little children. Ranny's face pained her. Most of all
it pained her to see Dossie's little cot drawn up beside Ranny's bed in
the back room; they looked so forlorn, the two of them; so outcast and
so abandoned.

She went unhindered and unheeded into Ranny's room, tidying it and
putting the little girl to bed. But into Violet's room she would not go
more than she could help. She hated Violet's room; she loathed it; and
she dared not think why.

* * * * *

One Saturday evening in the last week of September Ransome had come home
late after a long solitary ride in the country. Violet, who was busy
making a silk blouse for herself, had refused to go with him. Winny had
laid it down as a law for Ranny that Violet was never to be left for
very long to herself, if he wanted her to be happy. And, of course, he
wanted her to be happy. But if ever there was a moment when he could
leave her with a clear conscience it was when she was dressmaking.

She gave herself to it with passion, with absorption. He had known her
to sit for hours over a new blouse in apparently perfect happiness.

And to-day he could have sworn that she was happy. She had risen of her
own accord and kissed him good-by and told him to enjoy himself and not
hurry home. She would be all right, and Winny had said she would drop in
for tea. He left her sewing white lace onto blue silk in a matchless
tranquillity.

And he _had_ enjoyed his ride, and he had not hurried home, for he knew
that the children would be all right (even if Violet's happy mood had
changed) as long as Winny was there to look after them.

He rode far out into the open country, into the deep-dipping lanes,
between fields, and through lands scented with autumn. And as he rode he
was a boy again. Never since his marriage had he known such joy in
freedom and such ecstasy in speed. There was a wind that drove him on,
and the great clouds challenged him and raced with him as he went.

He came home against the wind, but that was nothing. The wind was a
challenge and a defiance of his strength; it set the blood racing in his
veins, and cooled it in his face when it burned. It was good to be
challenged by the wind and to defy it. It was good to struggle. It was
all good that happened to him on that day.

Night had fallen when he returned. Granville was lit up behind its
yellow blinds. Winny stood at the open door with the lighted pas