esperate effort of one who
has just self-recollection enough left to be conscious that the fumes of
charcoal will master his senses unless he bursts a way for himself to the
fresh air; but when she reached her own room, she was still too
intoxicated with that momentary revival of old emotions, too much
agitated by the sudden return of tenderness in her lover, to know whether
pain or pleasure predominated. It was as if a miracle had happened in her
little world of feeling, and made the future all vague--a dim morning
haze of possibilities, instead of the sombre wintry daylight and clear
rigid outline of painful certainty.

She felt the need of rapid movement. She must walk out in spite of the
rain. Happily, there was a thin place in the curtain of clouds which
seemed to promise that now, about noon, the day had a mind to clear up.
Caterina thought to herself, 'I will walk to the Mosslands, and carry Mr.
Bates the comforter I have made for him, and then Lady Cheverel will not
wonder so much at my going out.' At the hall door she found Rupert, the
old bloodhound, stationed on the mat, with the determination that the
first person who was sensible enough to take a walk that morning should
have the honour of his approbation and society. As he thrust his great
black and tawny head under her hand, and wagged his tail with vigorous
eloquence, and reached the climax of his welcome by jumping up to lick
her face, which was at a convenient licking height for him, Caterina felt
quite grateful to the old dog for his friendliness. Animals are such
agreeable friends--they ask no questions, they pass no criticisms.

The 'Mosslands' was a remote part of the grounds, encircled by the little
stream issuing from the pool; and certainly, for a wet day, Caterina
could hardly have chosen a less suitable walk, for though the rain was
abating, and presently ceased altogether, there was still a smart shower
falling from the trees which arched over the greater part of her way. But
she found just the desired relief from her feverish excitement in
labouring along the wet paths with an umbrella that made her arm ache.
This amount of exertion was to her tiny body what a day's hunting often
was to Mr. Gilfil, who at times had _his_ fits of jealousy and sadness to
get rid of, and wisely had recourse to nature's innocent opium--fatigue.

When Caterina reached the pretty arched wooden bridge which formed the
only entrance to the Mosslands for any but web