al
avocations until the moment came for her to start for the oak avenue
gate. She timed her arrival to be exactly at ten o'clock so that she
need not wait, as this of the three outlets was the one where there
might be a less remote chance of a passer-by. They had had to choose it
because it was on the road to Bristol.

The sun was shining gorgeously again when she emerged from the secret
door, carrying her heavy bundle, and except in the renewed freshness of
all the green there seemed no trace of the storm. Yes--as she got near
the gate she saw that one huge tree beyond that old friend who had
played the part of the holder of the Golden Fleece was stricken and
cleft through by the lightning. It had fallen in helpless fashion,
blackened and yawning, its proud head in the dust.

This grieved her deeply, and she paused to pass a tender hand over the
gaping wound. Then she went on to the gate, and there waited--waited
first in calm belief, then in expectancy, and at last in a numb agony.

The sun seemed to scorch her, the light hurt her eyes, every sound made
her tremble and start forward, and at last she cried aloud:

"O God, why do I feel so troubled? I who have always had peace in my
heart!"

But no bird even answered her. There was a warm stillness, and just
there, under these trees, there were no rabbits which could have
comforted her with their living forms scuttling to and fro.

She tried to reason calmly. Motors were uncertain things--this one might
have broken down, and that had delayed her lover. She must not stir, in
case he should come and think his lateness had frightened her and that
she had gone back to the house. Whatever befell, she must be brave and
true.

But at last, when the afternoon shadows were lengthening, the agony
became intense. Only the baker had passed with his cart, and a farm
wagon or two, during the whole day. Gradually the conviction grew that
it could not only be an accident to the motor--if so, John would have
procured some other vehicle, or, indeed, he could have come to her on
foot by now. Something had befallen him. There must have occurred some
accident to himself; and in spite of all her calm fortitude, anguish
clutched her soul.

She knew not what to do or which way to go. At last, as the sun began to
sink, faint and weary, she decided the orchard house would be the best
place. There, if there was any news of an accident, Sarah Porrit, the
Professor's one female servant, w