ke that."

"How shall I look at you?" he asked, not clearly.

"In the old way. But don't say things." She sprang up. "Not tonight."

"When?" he asked sternly.

"I--don't know. Tonight I feel afraid. It's--too much. I shan't be able
to keep it, Zebedee. It's too good. And we can't get this for nothing."

"I'm willing to pay for it. I want to pay for it, in the pain of parting
from you now, in the work of all my days--" He stopped in his
realization of how little he had to give. "I can't tell you," he added
simply.

"Will it hurt you to leave me tonight?" she whispered.

"Yes."

She touched his sleeve. "I don't like you to be hurt, yet I like that.
Will you come next Sunday?"

"Not if you're afraid. I can't come to see you if you won't let me say
things."

"I'll try not to be afraid; only, only, say them very softly so that
nothing else can hear."

He laughed and caught her hand and kissed it. "I shall do exactly what I
like," he said; but as he strode away without another word he knew from
something in the way she stood and looked at him, something of patience
and resolve, that their future was not in his hands alone.

When he was out of sight and hearing, Helen moved stiffly, as though she
waked from a long sleep and was uncertain where she was. The familiar
light shone in the kitchen of Brent Farm, yet the house seemed unreal
and remote, marooned in the high heather. The heather was thick and rich
that year, and the flowers touched her hands. The smell of honey was
heavy in the air, and thousands of small, pale moths made a
honey-coloured cloud between the purple moor and the night blue of the
sky. If she strained her ears, Helen could hear the singing of Halkett's
stream and it said things she had not heard before. A sound of voices
came from the road and she knew that some faithful Christians of the
moor were returning from their worship in the town: she remembered them
crude and ugly in their Sunday clothes, but they gathered mystery from
distance and the night. Perhaps they came from that chapel where Zebedee
had spent his unhappy hours. She turned and her hands swept the heather
flowers. This was now his praying place, as it had always been hers, and
when the Easter fires came again they would pray to them together.

At the garden door her hand fell from the latch and she faced the moor.
She lifted her arms and dropped them in a kind of pleading for mercy
from those whom she had served faithfully;