s nothing to be said for it. He began
to suspect that he could do little less likely to assure Sabina's
future. He clung to his strand of chivalry at this time, like a drowning
man to a straw; but other ingredients of his nature dragged him away.
Selfishness is the parent of sophistry, and Raymond found himself
dismissing old rules of morality and inherited instincts of religion and
justice for more practical and worldly values. He told himself it was as
much for Sabina's sake as for his own that he must now respect the
dictates of common-sense.

There came a day in October, when the young man sat in his office at the
mills, smoking and absorbed with his own affairs. The river Bride was
broken above the works, and while her way ran south of them, the
mill-race came north. Its labour on the wheel accomplished, the current
turned quickly back to the river bed again. From Raymond's window he
could see the main stream, under a clay bank, where the martins built
their nests in spring, and where rush and sedge and an over-hanging
sallow marked her windings. The sunshine found the stickles, and where
Bride skirted the works lay a pool in which trout moved. Water
buttercups shone silver white in this back-water at spring-time and the
water-voles had their haunts in the bank side.

Beyond stretched meadow-lands and over the hill that rose behind them
climbed the road to the cliffs. Hounds had ascended this road two hours
before and their music came faintly from afar to Raymond's ear, then
ceased. Already his relations with Sabina had lessened his will to
pleasure in other directions. His money had gone in gifts to her,
leaving no spare cash for the old amusements; but the distractions, that
for a time had seemed so tame contrasted with the girl, cried louder and
reminded how necessary and healthy they were.

Life seemed reduced to the naked question of cash. He was sorry for
himself. It looked hard, outrageous, wrong, that tastes so sane and
simple as his own, could not be gratified. A horseman descended the hill
and Raymond recognised him. It was Neddy Motyer. His horse was lame and
he walked beside it. Raymond smiled to himself, for Neddy, though a
zealous follower of hounds, lacked judgment and often met with disaster.

Ten minutes later Neddy himself appeared.

"Come to grief," he said. "Horse put his foot into a rabbit hole and cut
his knee on a flint. I've just taken him to the vet, here to be
bandaged, so I thought I