d John--"

"Never mind. John doesn't know about--things. Let's pack."

And while Mildred Caniper lay on one side of the landing where the
Pinderwells were playing quietly, Helen and Miriam, on the other,
laughed at the prospect before them and made foolish jokes as they
filled the trunk.

It was harder, next day, than Helen had guessed to hold Miriam's hand in
good-bye, to kiss her with a fragile, short-lived kiss, to watch her
climb into the trap and to hear her box banged into its place by the
driver's seat, with an emphatic noise that settled the question of her
going.

It was a cold morning and the wind bustled as though it had an interest
in this affair; it caught Miriam's skirt as she stood on the trap step,
and lifted the veil floating from her hat, fluttered the horse's mane
and disordered Helen's hair. It was like a great cold broom trying to
sweep these aliens off the moor, and, for a moment, Helen had more pity
for Miriam than for herself. Miriam was exiled, while she stayed at
home.

She looked up at the house front and heard the laurels rattling, and
round her she saw the moor spread clear-coloured under the east wind.
Halkett's high wood stood up like ranks of giants set to guard her and,
though she saw them now as George's men, she had no fear of them.

"Helen!" Miriam called to her.

She went forward and stood at the carriage door. "Yes?"

"Helen--we're going. Do you remember the first time we bathed in the
sea? The wind was so cold, like this, before we went into the water. We
nearly ran back. That's how I feel now."

"But we didn't go back."

"Oh! here's Uncle Alfred."

"And we learnt to swim."

"Yes. Good-bye. Kiss me again."

Helen stood quite still with her hands by her sides, while the carriage
bumped over the track, stopped on the road that John and Lily might say
their farewells, and slowly went on again until it was out of sight and
she saw the road left empty. It looked callous, too, as though it did
not care what came or went on it, and as she looked about her, Helen
discovered that she was in a desert world, a wilderness of wind and
dead, rustling heather and angry laurel leaves, of empty houses and
women whose breath whistled through their distorted mouths. And the
giants, standing so great and black against the sky, were less to guard
her than to keep a friend from attempted rescue.

She raised her arms and opened her hands in a gesture of avowal. No one
would ever rescue