had had some breakfast, and had taken a midday train to Whinborough, and a trap to Long Whindale.

She had travelled straight from Nice without stopping. She would not let herself think now as she hurried along the lonely road what it was she had fled from, what it was that had befallen. The slightest glimpse into this past made her begin to sob; she put it away from her with all her strength. But she had had of course to decide where she should go, with whom she should take refuge.

Not with Uncle Richard, whom she had deceived and defied. Not with Aunt Alice.' No sooner did the vision of that delicate withered face, that slender form, come before her, than it brought with it terrible fancies. Her conduct had probably killed' Aunt Alice.' She did not want to think

about her.

But Mrs. Elsmere knew all about bad men, and girls who got into trouble. She, Hester, knew, from a few things she had heard people say-things that no one supposed she had heard that Mrs. Elsmere had given years of her life, and sacrificed her health, to rescue' work. The rescue of girls from such men as Philip?

when

How could they be rescued?—

All that was nonsense. But the face, the eyes-the shining, loving eyes, the motherly arms,-yes, those, Hester confessed to herself, she had thirsted for. They had brought her all the way from Nice to this northern valley-this bleak, forbidding country. She shivered again from head to foot, as she made her way painfully against the wind.

Yet now she was flying even from Catharine Elsmere; even from those tender eyes that haunted her.

The road turned towards a bridge, and on the other side of the bridge degenerated into a rough and stony bridle-path, giving access to two grey farms beneath the western fell. On the near side of the bridge the road became a cart-track leading to the far end of the dale.

Hester paused irresolute on the bridge, and looked back towards Burwood. A light appeared in what was no doubt the sitting-room window. A lamp perhaps, that, in view of the premature darkening of the afternoon by the heavy stormclouds from the north, a servant had just brought in. Hester watched it in a kind of panic, foreseeing the moment when the

curtains would be drawn and the light shut out from her. She thought of the little room within, the warm firelight, Mary with her beautiful hair-and Mrs. Elsmere. They were perhaps working and reading-as though that were all there were to do and think about in the world! No, no! after all they couldn't be very peaceful-or very cheerful. Mary was engaged to Uncle Richard now; and Uncle Richard must be pretty miserable.

The exhausted girl nearly turned back towards that light. Then a hand came quietly and shut it out. The curtains were drawn. Nothing now to be seen of the little house, but its dim outlines in the oncoming twilight, the smoke blown about its roof, and a faint gleam from a side-window, perhaps the kitchen.

Suddenly a thought, a wild, attacking thought, leapt out upon her, and held her there motionless in the winding wintry lane.

When had she sent that telegram to Upcote? If she could only remember! The events of the preceding forty-eight hours seemed to be all confused in one mad flux of misery. Was it possible that they too could be here-Uncle Richard and Aunt Alice'? She had said something about Mrs. Elsmere in her telegram-she could not recollect what. That had been meant to comfort them, and yet to keep them away, to make them leave her to her own plans. But supposing, instead, its effect had been to bring them here at once in pursuit of her?

She hurried forward, sobbing dry sobs of terror as though she already heard their steps behind her. What was she afraid of? Simply their love!-simply their sorrow! She had broken their hearts; and what could she say to them?

The recollection of all her cruelty to Aunt Alice' in Parisher neglect, her scorn, her secret unjust anger with those who had kept from her the facts of her birth-seemed to rise up between her and all ideas of hope and help. Oh, of course they would be kind to her!-they would forgive her-but-but she couldn't bear it! Impatience with the very scene of wailing and forgiveness she foresaw, as of something utterly futile and vain, swept through the quivering nerves.

And it can never be undone!' she said to herself roughly, as though she were throwing the words in some one's face. It can never, never be undone ! What's the good of talking?

So the only alternative was to wander a while longer into these clouds and storms that were beginning to beat down from the pass through the darkness of the valley; to try and think things out; to find some shelter for the night; then to go away again somewhere. She was conscious now of a first driving of sleet in her face; but it only lasted for a few minutes. Then it ceased; and a strange gleam swept over the valley—a livid storm-light from the west, which blanched all the withered grass beside her, and seemed to shoot along the course of the stream as she toiled up the rocky path beside it.

What a country, what a sky! Her young body was conscious of an angry revolt against it, against the northern cold and dreariness; her body, which still kept as it were the physical memory of sun, and blue sea, and orange-trees, of the shadow of olives on a thin grass, of the scent of orange-blossom on the broken twigs that some one was putting into her hand.

Another fit of shuddering repulsion made her quicken her pace, as though, again, she were escaping from pursuit. Suddenly, at a bend in the path, she came on a shepherd and his flock. The shepherd, an old white-haired man, was seated on a rock, staff in hand, watching his dog collect the sheep from the rocky slope on which they were scattered.

At sight of Hester the old man started and stared. Her fair hair escaping in many directions from the control of combs and hairpins, and the pale lovely face in the midst of it, shone in the stormy gleam that filled the basin of the hills. Her fashionable hat and dress amazed him. Who could she be?

She too stopped to look at him and at his dog. The mere neighbourhood of a living being brought a kind of comfort.

It's going to snow-she said, as she stood beside him, surprised by the sound of her own voice amid the roar of the wind.

'Aye, it's onding o' snaw,' said the shepherd, his shrewd blue eyes travelling over her face and form. An' it'll mappen

be a rough night.'

'Are you taking your sheep into shelter?'

He pointed to a half-ruined fold, with three sycamores beside it, a stone's throw away. The gate of it was open, and the dog was gradually chasing the sheep within it.

'I doan't like leavin' 'em on t' fells this bitter weather. I'm afraid for t' ewes. It's too cauld for 'em. They'll be for

droppin' their lambs too soon if this wind goes on.

taks t' strength out on 'em, doos the wind.'

'Do you think it's going to snow a great deal?'

It juist

The old man looked round at the clouds and the mountains; at the powdering of snow that had already whitened the heights. It'll be more 'n a bit!' he said cautiously. I dessay we'll have to be gettin' men to open t' roads to-morrow.'

'Does it often block the roads?'

Aye, yance or twice i' t' winter. An' ye can't let 'em bide. What's ter happen ter foak as want the doctor?'

'Did you ever know people lost on these hills?' asked the girl, looking into the blackness ahead of them. Her shrill, slight voice rang out in sharp contrast to the broad gutturals of his Westmoreland speech.

Aye, Missy-I've known two men losst on t' fells sin' I wor a lad.'

'Were they shepherds, like you?'

'Noa, Missy-they wor tramps. Theer's mony a fellow cooms by this way i' th' bad weather to Pen'rth, rather than face Shap fells. They say it's bether walkin. But when it's varra bad, we doan't let 'em go on-noa, it's not safe. Theer was a mon lost on t' fells nine year ago coom February. He wor an owd mon, and blind o' yan eye. He'd lost the toother, dippin sheep.'

'How could he do that?' Hester asked absently, still staring ahead into the advancing storm, and trembling with cold from head to foot.

Why, sum o' the dippin stuff got into yan eye, and blinded him. It was my son, gooin' afther th' lambs i' the snaw, as found him. He heard summat-a voice like a lile child cryin'— an' he scratted aboot, an' dragged th' owd man out. He worn't deed then, but he died next mornin. An t' doctor said as he'd fair broken his heart i' th' storm-not in a figure o' speach yo unnerstan'-but juist th' plain truth.'

The old man rose. The sheep had all been folded. He called to his dog and went to shut the gate. Then, still curiously eyeing Hester, he came back followed by his dog to the place where she stood, listlessly watching.

'Doan't yo go too far on t' fells, Missy. It's coomin' on to snaw, an it'll snaw aw neet. Lor bless yer, it's wild here i' winter. An when t' clouds coom down like yon-' he pointed

up the valley even them as knaws t' fells from a chilt may go wrang.'

Where does this path lead?' asked Hester absently.

It goes oop to Marly Head and joins on to th' owd road,t' Roman road, foak calls it-along top o' t' fells. An' if yo follers that far enoof yo may coom to Ullswatter an' Pen'rth.'

Thank you. Good afternoon,' said Hester, moving on. The old shepherd looked after her doubtfully, then said to himself that what the lady did was none of his business, and turned back towards one of the farms across the bridge. Who was she? She was a strange sort of body to be walking by herself up the head of Long Whindale. He supposed she came from Burwood-there was no other house where a lady like that could be staying. But it was a bit queer anyhow.

Hester walked on. She turned a craggy corner, beyond which she was out of sight of anyone on the lower stretches of the road. The struggle with the wind, the roar of water in her ears, had produced in her a kind of trance-like state. She walked mechanically, half deafened, half blinded, measuring her force against the wind, conscious every now and then of gusts of snow in her face, of the deepening gloom overhead climbing up and up the rocky path. But, as in that fatal moment when she had paused in the Burwood lane, her mind was not more than vaguely conscious of her immediate surroundings. It had become the prey of swarming recollections-captured by sudden agonies, unavailing horror-stricken revolts.

At last, out of breath and almost swooning, she sank down under the shelter of a rock and became in a moment aware that white mists were swirling and hurrying all about her, and that only just behind her and just above her was the path clear. Without knowing it she had climbed and climbed till she was very near the top of the pass. She looked down into a witch's cauldron of mist and vapour, already thickened with snow, and up into an impenetrable sky, as it seemed, close upon her head, from which the white flakes were beginning to fall steadily and fast.

She was a little frightened, but not much. After all, she had only to rest and retrace her steps. The watch at her wrist told her it was not much past four; and it was February. It would be daylight till half-past five, unless the storm put out the daylight. A little rest-just a little rest! But she began