had before thought him.

For that she most bitterly, with an intensity that only her loneliness
could have given her, despised herself. And yet something else in her
knew that that reproach was not a true one. She had really softened
towards him only because she had felt that she had behaved badly
towards him, and the discovery now that he had behaved badly towards
her did not alter her own original behaviour. She did not analyse all
this; she only knew that there were in her longings for affection, a
desire to be loved, an aching for companionship, and that these things
must always be kept down, fast hidden within her. She realised her
loneliness now with a fierce, proud, almost exultant independence. No
more tears, no more leaning upon others, no more expecting anything
from anybody. She was not dramatic in her new independence; she did not
cry defiance to the golden mist or the larks or the hidden sun; she
only walked on and on, stumping forward in her clumsy boots, her eyes
hard and unseeing, her hands clasped behind her back.

Her expectation of happiness in her opening life that had been so
strong with her that other day when she had looked down upon Polchester
was gone. She expected nothing, she wanted nothing. Her only thought
was that she would never yield to any one, never care for any one,
never give to any one the opportunity of touching her. At moments
through the mist came the figure of the cook, stout, florid,
triumphant. Maggie regarded her contemptuously. "You cannot touch me,"
she thought. Of her father she would never think again. With both hands
she flung all her memories of him into the mist to be lost for ever ...

She came suddenly upon a lonely farm-house. She knew the place,
Borhedden; it had often been a favourite walk of hers from the Vicarage
to Borhedden. The farmer let rooms there and, because the house was
very old, some of the rooms were fine, with high ceilings, thick stone
walls, and even some good panelling. The view too was superb, across to
the Broads and the Molecatcher, or back to the Dreot Woods, or to the
dim towers of Polchester Cathedral. The air here was fine--one of the
healthiest spots in Glebeshire.

The farm to-day was transfigured by the misty glow; cows and horses
could be faintly seen, ricks burnt with a dim fire. Somewhere dripping
water falling on to stone gave a vocal spirit to the obscurity. The
warm air seemed to radiate about the house like a flame that is
obs