rry," she said, and wondered if she spoke the truth.

Her gaze, very wide and serious, affected his, and as they looked at
each other she realized that, with those half-closed eyes of his, he was
considering her as he had never done before. She became conscious of her
physical self at once, and this was an experience strange to her; she
remembered the gown she wore, the fashion of her hair, her grey
stockings and worn, low shoes; slowly, almost imperceptibly, she shifted
a foot which was twisted inwards, and having done this, she found that
she did not like George's appraisement. With a broken word of farewell
and thanks she quickly left him.

"I didn't like that," she said emphatically to the broad freedom of the
moor. George's interest was like the hollow: it hemmed her in and made
her hot, but here the wide winds swept over her with a cleansing cold.
Nevertheless, when she went to Notya's room, she took the opportunity of
scanning herself in the glass.

"You have been running," Mildred Caniper said.

"No, not lately."

"You are very pink."

"Yes."

Mildred Caniper's tone changed suddenly. "And I don't know where you
have been. I wish you would not run off without warning. And I could not
find Miriam anywhere." From anger she sank back to helplessness. "I
don't know what to take," she said, and her hands jerked on her lap.

"Let's see," Helen said cheerfully. "Warm things for the journey, and
cooler things for when you get there." She made no show of consulting
Notya and, moving with leisurely competence from wardrobe to chest of
drawers, she laid little heaps of clothing on the bed.

"Handkerchiefs: one, two, three, four--"

"I shan't need many."

"But you'd better take a lot."

"I shall soon come back."

"Five, six, seven," Helen counted on, and her whispers sounded loudly in
the room where Mildred Caniper's thoughts were busy.

"You haven't a very warm coat, so you must take mine," Helen said, and
when she looked up she discovered in her stepmother the extraordinary
stillness of a being whose soul has gone on a long journey. Her voice
came, as before, from that great distance, yet with surprising
clearness, as though she spoke through some instrument which reduced the
volume and accentuated the peculiarities of her tones.

"One ought never to be afraid of anything," the small voice
said--"never." Her lips tightened, and slowly she seemed to return to
the body which sat on the sofa by the window.