ing her decree with a patience that
made her sorry for him.

"You're going to drive back with me?" His anxiety to please her
controlled his eagerness: his wish to tend her was like a warm but
stifling cloak, and she could not refuse him.

"They'll think we've met by chance," he said.

"Who will?"

"Any one that sees us."

"I'm not concerned with what people think."

"That's all right then. Nor am I. Will you wait here or come with me to
the stable?"

"I'll wait," she said.

People with blue faces and red-rimmed eyes went past her, and there was
not one of them she did not envy, for of all the people in that town,
she alone was waiting for George Halkett. He came too soon, and held out
a helping hand which she disdained.

"My word!" he said, "the wind is cold. Keep the rug round you."

"No, I don't like it." She pushed it off. "I can't bear the smell of
it."

"I'm sorry," he said. "It's clean enough."

"I didn't think it was dirty," she explained, and a few minutes
afterwards, she added, "I'm sorry I was rude, George."

"You're tired," he said again.

"Drive quickly, won't you?"

He whipped up the horse, and the wind roared behind them; they passed
men and women staggering against it.

"Will there be snow?" she asked him.

He bent his ear to her, and again she shouted, "Will there be snow?"

"Feels--rather like it," he boomed back. "I never knew such a year. And
they'd begun burning the heather!"

"Had they? Did you say burning heather? Then the fires will be put out.
George, they'll be put out!"

He nodded, thinking this a small thing to shout about, in such a wind.

She had forgotten about the fires, but now she looked at the grey sky
and hoped the snow would come. She imagined the first flake hissing on
the fire, and more flakes, and more and more, until there was no smoke
to veil the god, only a thick wet blanket for his burial. She had loved
his moor, yet he had forsaken her; she had been afraid to hope, she had
gone humbly and she had prayed, but now she need pay him no more homage,
for she had nothing more to fear, and she whispered to the snow to hurry
and avenge her.

When they were nearly home, George spoke again. "Are you very cold?"

"I'm warmer now."

"I'll drive you up the track."

"I'd rather get out here. Stop, George, please."

"Wait till I help you down," he said, and jumped off on the other side.

"My feet are numb," she said, looking at the arms he held for her.