sun-kissed earth around
her. It was all so gorgeous, so free and untrammelled. She lay upon the
hot springy heather, and crushed the tiny purple flowers of the wild
thyme between her fingers, raising the bruised petals to her face to
drink in their strong sweet scent.

From far off she could hear the tinkle of a goat bell, and the occasional
short bark of a sheep dog. All else was silence, save for the humming of
the bees above the heather. Tiny insects floated in the still air,
looking like specks of thistle-down as the sun caught and silvered their
minute wings. Little blue butterflies flitted hither and thither like
radiant animated flowers.

For a long time Trix sat very still, body and soul bathed in the beauty
around her. At last she got to her feet, and made her way across the
heather, ignoring the small beaten tracks despite the prickliness of her
chosen route.

After some half-hour's walking she came to a stone wall bordering a hilly
field, a low wall, a battered wall, where tiny ferns grew in the
crevices, and the stones themselves were patched with orange-coloured
lichen.

Trix climbed the wall, and walked across the soft grass. A good way to
the right was a fence, and beyond the fence a wood. Trix made her way
slowly towards it. Thistles grew among the grass,--carding thistles, and
thistles with small drooping heads. She looked at them idly as she
walked. Suddenly a slight sound behind her made her turn, and with the
turning her heart leapt to her throat.

From over the brow of the hilly field behind her, quite a number of
cattle were coming at a fair pace towards her.

Now Trix hated cows in any shape or form, and these were the unpleasant
white-faced, brown cattle, whose very appearance is against them. They
were moving quickly too, quite alarmingly quickly.

Trix cast one terrified and pathetic glance over her shoulder. The glance
was all-sufficient. She ran,--ran straight for the wood, the cattle after
her. Doubtless curiosity, mere enquiry maybe, prompted their pursuit.
Trix concerned herself not at all with the motive, the fact was
all-sufficient. Fear lent wings to her feet, and with the horned and
horrid beasts still some ten yards behind her, she precipitated herself
across the fence to fall in an undignified but wholly relieved heap among
a mass of bracken and whortleberry bushes. The briefest of moments saw
her once more on her feet, struggling, fighting her way through
shoulder-high brac