he had followed Norah
yesterday.

He had not intended to leave the highroad, but it was as if that dead
man's girls had driven him into the wood to get away from their shyly
questioning eyes. He might meet them again if he stayed out there. In
here he could be alone with his thoughts.

To-day there was plenty of sunlight, and instead of turning off the
path he went straight on to the main ride. This too was bright with
sunshine, a splendid broad avenue that was shut close on either side
by the thickly planted firs; the mossy track seeming soft as a bed,
and the sky like an immensely high canopy of delicate blue gauze. A
heron crossed quickly but easily, making only three flaps of its
powerful wings before it disappeared; there was an unceasing hum of
insects; and two wood-cutters came by and wished Dale good afternoon
and touched their weather-stained hats.

"Good afternoon," he said, in a friendly tone. "A bit cooler and
pleasanter to-day, isn't it?"

"You're right, sir. 'Bout time too."

Then he walked on, alone with his thoughts again, along the wide
sunlit ride toward Kibworth Rocks; and a phrase kept echoing in his
ears, sounding as if he said it aloud. "It is the finger of God. It is
the finger of God." He was quoting himself really, because he had once
used that phrase in a pompously effective manner. Could one repeat it
as effectively in regard to what happened near here yesterday? Could
one dare to say that the finger of God interposed, touching his blood
with ice, making his muscles relax, forcing him to loosen his hold on
the delicious morsel that like a beast of prey he was about to devour
and enjoy.

He walked with hunched shoulders and lowered head, but there was great
resolution, even an odd sort of swaggering defiance in his gait. He
stopped short, raised his head, and looked about him at a certain
point of the ride. Here he was very near to the open glade where he
met Norah; but he was nearer still to the strewn boulders, jagged
ridges, and hollow clefts of Kibworth Rocks. If he left the ride, he
would see them, brown and gray, glittering in the sunshine.

And he thought again of those fifty orphans or waifs. Why weren't they
here to bow and do honor to him who had been the friend of girls in
life and who was the guardian angel of girls in death? This was the
hallowed spot, the benefactor's resting-place till devout hands raised
him and priests sang over him, the rocky shrine of their patron sa