rcely keep
her eyes from her. She knew that she must not ask her questions at the
risk of "losing an advantage." She had, in fact, never been one of the
women who must ask questions. There was however something eerie in
remembering her queer feeling about the crying of the wind, silly though
she had decided it to be, and something which made it difficult to go
about all day knowing nothing but seeing strange signs. She had been
more afraid for Robin than she would have admitted even to herself. And
when the girl sat down at the table by the window overlooking the moor
and ate her breakfast without effort or distaste, it was far from easy
to look quite as if she had been doing it every morning.

Then there was the look in her eyes, as if she was either listening to
something or remembering it. She went out twice during the day and she
carried it with her even when she talked of other things. Dowie saw it
specially when she lay down on the big lounge to rest. But she did not
lie down often or long at a time. It was as though she was no longer
unnaturally tired and languid. She did little things for herself, moving
about naturally, and she was pleased when a messenger brought flowers,
explaining that his lordship had ordered that they should be sent every
other day from the nearest town. She spent an hour filling crystal bowls
and clear slim vases with them and the look never left her.

But she said nothing until she went out with Dowie at sunset. They only
walked for a short time and they did not keep to the road but went on to
the moor itself and walked among the heath and bracken. After a little
while they sat down and gave themselves up to the vast silence with here
and there the last evening twitter of a bird in it. The note made the
stillness greater. The flame of the sky was beyond compare and, after
gazing at it for a while, Dowie turned a slow furtive look on Robin.

But Robin was looking at her with clear soft naturalness--loving and
untroubled and kindly sweet.

"He came back, Dowie. He came again," she said. And her voice was still
as natural as the good woman had ever known it.

CHAPTER XXVIII

But even after this Dowie did not ask questions. She only watched more
carefully and waited to be told what the depths of her being most
yearned to hear. The gradually founded belief of her careful prosaic
life prevented ease of mind or a sense of security. She could not be
certain that it would be the p