f the door and motioned to me to enter.

I shook my head.

"Not to-night," I shouted. "I am drenched."

She endeavoured to persuade me.

"For a few moments, at any rate," she pleaded. "The others will not be
home yet, and I will make you something hot. Father is expecting you to
supper."

I shook my head and staggered on. At the corner of the street I looked
behind. She was holding on to the door handle, still watching me, her
skirts blowing about her in strange confusion. For a moment I had half
a mind to turn back. The dead loneliness before me seemed imbued with
fresh horrors--the loneliness, my fireless grate and empty larder.
Moyat was at least hospitable. There would be a big fire, plenty to eat
and drink. Then I remembered the man's coarse hints, his unveiled
references to his daughters and his wish to see them settled in life,
his superabundance of whisky and his only half-veiled tone of patronage.
The man was within his rights. He was the rich man of the
neighbourhood, corn dealer, farmer, and horse breeder. I was an unknown
and practically destitute stranger, come from Heaven knew where, and
staying on--because it took a little less to keep body and soul together
here than in the town. But my nerves were all raw that night, and the
thought of John Moyat with his hearty voice and slap on the shoulder was
unbearable. I set my face homewards.

From the village to my cottage stretched a perfectly straight road, with
dykes on either side. No sooner had I passed the last house, and set my
foot upon the road, than I saw strange things. The marshland, which on
the right reached to the sea, was hung here and there with sheets of
mist driven along the ground like clouds before an April tempest. White
flakes of spray, salt and luminous, were dashed into my face. The sea,
indriven up the creeks, swept the road in many places. The cattle,
trembling with fear, had left the marshland, and were coming, lowing,
along the high path which bordered the dyke. And all the time an
undernote of terror, the thunder of the sea rushing in upon the land,
came like a deep monotonous refrain to the roaring of the wind.

Through it all I battled my way, hatless, soaked to the skin, yet
finding a certain wild pleasure in the storm. By the time I had reached
my little dwelling I was exhausted. My hair and clothes were in wild
disorder, my boots were like pulp upon my feet. My remaining strength
was expended in closing the door. The fi