o he is." She was hardly aware of what she said, for she was
hesitating between the immediate establishment of her supremacy and the
punishment of George, and having decided that his punishment should
include sufficient tribute, she said firmly, "I won't have anything to
do with him."

"Then I'll go. Help Notya if you can."

Miriam took a step nearer. "What is she like?"

"Oh--queer."

"Then perhaps I'd rather go to George," she whispered.

"I'm halfway there already," Helen said from the door.

She slipped across the moor with the speed which came so easily to her,
and her breathing had hardly quickened when she issued from the
larch-wood and stood on the cobble-stones before the low white house.
Already the leaves of a rose-tree by the door were budding, for in that
sheltered place the sun was gathered warmly. So, too, she thought,
darkness would lie closely there and rain would shoot down in thick
splinters with intent to hurt. She was oppressed by a sense of
concentration in this tree-lined hollow, and before she stepped across
the yard she lifted and shook her shoulders to free them of the weight.
She remembered one summer day when the air had been clogged by the scent
of marigolds, but this was not their season, and the smell of the
larches came healthfully on the winds that struggled through the trees.

She had raised her hand to knock on the open door when she heard a step,
and turned to see George Halkett.

"George," she said without preamble, "I've come to ask you to do
something for us. Our stepmother has unexpectedly to catch a train.
Could you, would you, drive her down--and a box, and our uncle, and his
bag?"

She found, to her surprise, that John's story had given George a new
place in her mind. She had been accustomed to see him as a mere part of
the farm which bore his name, and now she looked at him with a different
curiosity. She imagined him bending over Lily Brent and, with a strong
distaste, she pictured him starting back at her assault. It seemed to
her, she could not tell why, that no woman should raise her hand against
a man, and that this restraint was less for her dignity than for his.

"I'll do it with pleasure," George was saying.

"Thank you very much," she murmured, and named the time. "Is Mr. Halkett
better?"

"I'm afraid he's never going to get better, Miss Helen," he said, using
the title he had given her long ago because of a childish dignity which
amused him.

"I'm so