lynette asked her father to tell her a story. they were walking through the wet bracken on the edge of the larch wood, canterton holding the child’s hand.

“presently, little beech leaf. a good fairy is talking to me, and i must listen.”

“then i’ll keep ever so quiet till she’s done.”

canterton had looked into the eyes of the child, and had seen the woman’s eyes, eve’s eyes, in the child’s. for eve’s eyes had been like the eyes of lynette, till he, the man, had awakened a more primitive knowledge in them. he remembered how it had been said that the child is a finer, purer creation than either the man or the woman, and that the sex spirit is a sullying influence, blurring the more delicate colours; and eve had had much of the child in her till he, in all innocence, had taught her to suffer.

a great pity overtook him as he looked down at lynette, and wondered how he would feel if some blind idealist were ever to make her suffer. his pity showed him what love had failed to discover. he understood of a sudden how blind, how obstinate, and over-confident he must have seemed to eve. he had killed all the child in her, and aroused the woman, and then refused to see that she had changed.

“i have been torturing her.”

his compassion was touched with shame.

“you are making it so impossible.”

that cry of hers had a new pathos. it was she who had suffered, because she had seen things clearly, while he had been too masterful, too sure of himself, too oblivious of her youth. one could not put the language of summer into the mouth of spring. it was but part of the miracle of growth that he had been studying all these years. certain and inevitable changes had to occur when the sun climbed higher and the sap rose.

canterton paused while they were in the thick of the larch wood.

“lynette, old lady!”

“yes, daddy?”

“the fairy has just said that we ought to go and see miss eve.”

“what a sensible fairy. yes, do let’s go. she may let me see her do her hair.”

canterton smiled. he meant to carry lynette on his shoulders into the garden of orchards corner, to hold her up as a symbol and a sign, to betray in the child his surrender. assuredly it was possible for them to be healed. he would say, “let’s go back into yesterday. try and forgive me for being blind. we will be big children together, you and i, with lynette.”

some warning voice seemed to speak to him as they entered the lane, questioning this plan of his, throwing out a vague hint of unexpected happenings. he heard eve saying good-bye over yonder among the fir trees. she had refused to say good night.

he set lynette down under the hedge, and spoke in a whisper.

“we’ll play at hide and seek. i’ll go on and see if i can find her.”

“yes. i’ll hide, and jump out when you bring her into the lane, daddy.”

“that’s it.”

he wondered what sort of night eve had spent, and his eyes were instinctively towards her window as he walked up the path to the house. his ring was answered almost immediately. the little, bunchy-figured maid stood there, looking sulky and bewildered.

“is miss carfax in?”

the girl’s eyes stared.

“no, she ain’t. she’s gone to london, and ain’t coming back.”

“when did she go?”

“must have been this morning before i was up. she’d ’ad ’er breakfast, and written me a letter. she’s left everything to me, and i don’t know which way to turn. there’s luggage to be packed and sent off to london, and the house to be cleaned, and the keys to be taken to mr. hanstead’s. i’m fair bothered, sir. i ain’t going to sleep ’ere alone, and my ’ome’s at croydon. maybe my young man’s mother will take me in.”

“if not some of my people can.”

“miss carfax left a letter for you, sir.”

“let me have it.”

the girl went into the dining-room, and canterton followed her. the letter was lying on the parcel that contained the latimer and fernhill pictures. he went to the window, broke the seal, and read eve’s letter.

the girl watched him, and he was conscious of her inquisitive eyes. but his face betrayed nothing, and he acted as though there were nothing wonderful about this sudden flight.

“miss carfax did not tell you that she was expecting the offer of work in london?”

“no, sir.”

“i see. she has been sent for rather hurriedly. a very fine situation i believe. you had better follow out her orders. this parcel is for me.”

he took it under his arm, went to the front door, and called lynette.

“no hide and seek this morning.”

he wanted the girl to see lynette, but he did not want lynette to hear the news.

“isn’t she in?”

canterton met her as she came up the path.

“not at home, princess, and anne’s as busy as can be, and i’ve got this parcel to carry back.”

“what’s in it, daddy?”

“pictures.”

and he felt that he carried all the past in those pictures.

lynette wondered why he walked so fast, and why his face looked so quiet and funny. she had to bustle her slim legs to keep up with him, and he had nothing whatever to say.

“what a hurry you’re in, daddy.”

“i have just remembered i’ve got to go down to the village before breakfast. and, by george! here’s something i have forgotten to give to lavender. will you take it, old lady, while i go down to the village?”

“yes, daddy.”

he gave her an envelope he had in his pocket. it contained nothing but some seeds he had taken from a plant a few days ago, but the ruse served.

canterton left the parcel of pictures at one of the lodges. it took him just twenty minutes to reach basingford station, for he had to walk through the village after taking some of the field paths at a run. a solitary milk cart stood in the station yard, and a clattering of cans came from the up platform. canterton entered the booking office, glanced into the waiting-room, and strolled through to the up platform. there was no eve. the place was deserted, save for a porter and the driver of the milk cart, who were loading empty cans on to a truck.

canterton remembered that he had a freight bill in his pocket, and that he owed the railway company three pounds and some odd silver. he called the porter.

“gates!”

the man came at once, touching his cap.

“is the goods office open?”

“yes, sir.”

“i have a bill i owe them. anyone there to take the money?”

“they’ll be ready for that, mr. canterton.”

“oh, by the way, gates, did miss carfax catch her train all right? i mean the early one?”

“the lady from orchards corner, sir?”

“yes. you know miss carfax.”

“to be sure. she was earlier than me, sir, and down here before i got the booking office swept out.”

“that’s good. i’m glad she caught it. good morning, gates.”

“good morning, sir.”

as canterton walked across to the goods office, he found himself confessing to a bitter and helpless sense of defeat. he had made this woman suffer, and it seemed out of his power now even to humble himself before her. she had fled out of his life, and appealed to him not to follow her—not to try and see her. it was better for them both, she had said, to try and forget, but he knew in his heart of hearts that it would never be forgotten.