ming alive, and no one knew better than she that
life, to be life, must be also a matter of pain. Tenney was leaving her
to a great extent free. He was off now, doing his fencing, and he would
even, returning at noon or night, forget to fall into the exaggerated
limp he kept in reserve to remind her of his grievance. She had not seen
Raven for a long time now, except as he and Nan went by, always looking
at the house, once or twice halting a moment in the road, as if debating
whether they should call. And Tira, when she saw them, from her hiding
behind the curtain, would step to the door and fasten it against them.
She would not answer, she told herself, if they knocked. But they never
did knock. They went on and left her to her chosen loneliness. For an
instant she would be unreasonably hurt, and then smile at herself,
knowing it was she who had denied them.

It was an April morning when the spring so got into her blood that she
began to wish for things. They were simple things she wished for:
chiefly to feel herself active in the air and sun. She wanted to go
away, to tire herself out with motion, and she made up her mind that, if
Tenney went to the long pasture fencing, she would shut the house and
run off with the baby into the woods. The baby was heavy now, but
to-day, in her fullness of strength, his weight was nothing to her. They
might even go over to Mountain Brook by the path "'cross lots" where the
high stepping stones led to the track round the mountain. She loved the
look of the stepping stones in spring when the river swirled about them
and they dared you to cross and then jeered at you because the water
foamed and threatened. She sang a little, finishing her morning tasks,
and Tenney, coming from the barn with his axe, to start on his day's
fencing, heard her sing. Tira, when she saw him, was in such haste to be
off herself that she called to him from the window:

"Here! don't you forget your luncheon. I've got it 'most put up."

He glanced back over his shoulder, and spoke curtly:

"I don't want it. I'm goin' over on the knoll."

Her heart fell. The day was done. She would have to stay and get his
dinner. Even an hour's vagabondage would be impossible, for the knoll
was across the road overlooking the house and he would see her go. All
these weeks she had held herself to a strict routine, so that every
minute could be accounted for. This day only she had meant to break her
habit and run. It was over