The laborers were leaving the fields, and, with their breakfast cans
swung on their fork handles, they were drifting in twos and threes into
the Flying Horse. It looked warm and snug within.

She passed the little cluster of old houses, and scarcely saw them in
the deepening night. As she went by the mill she could just descry its
ruined roof standing out like a dark pyramid against the dun sky. The
snow fell faster. It was now lying thick on her cloak in front, and on
the windward face of the lantern in her hand.

The road was heavier than before, and she had still fully a quarter of a
mile to go. She hastened on. Passing the little church--Parson
Christian's church--she met Job Sheepshanks, the letter-cutter, coming
out of the shed in the church-yard. "Bad night for a young lady to be
from home, begging your pardon, miss," said Job, and went on toward the
village, his bunch of chisels clanking over his shoulder.

The wind soughed in the leafless trees that grew around the old roofless
barn at the corner of the road that led to the fells. The gurgle of a
half-frozen waterfall came from the distant Ghyll. Save for these sounds
and the dull thud of Greta's step on the snow-covered road, all around
was still.

How fast the snow fell now. Yet Greta heeded it not at all. Her mind was
busy with many thoughts. She was thinking of Paul as Parson Christian's
great book had pictured him--Paul as a child, a little, darling babe,
not yet able to walk. Could it be possible that Paul, her Paul, had once
been that? Of course, to think like this was foolishness. Every one must
have been young at some time. Only it seemed so strange. It was a sort
of mystery.

Then she thought of Paul the man--Paul as he had been, gay and
heartsome; Paul as he was, harassed by many cares. She thought of her
love for him--of his love for her--of how they were soon, very soon, to
join hands and face the unknown future in an unknown land. She had
promised. Yes, and she would go.

She thought of Paul in London, and how soon he would be back in
Newlands. This was Monday, and Paul had promised to come home on
Wednesday. Only two days more! Yet how long it would be, after all!

Greta had reached the lonnin that went up to the Ghyll. She would soon
be there. How thick the trees were in the lane! They shut out the last
glimmer of light from the sky. The lantern burned yellow amidst the snow
that lay on it like a crust.

Then Greta thought of Mrs. Rit