“Don’t lie there all day, my girl.  Get up and go out.  What you want is a good blow on the moor.”

“Yes.  If I didn’t die before I got there,” Alice would say, while she thought, “Serve him right, too, if I did.”

And the Vicar would turn from her in disgust.  He knew what was the matter with his daughter Alice.

At dinner time he would pull himself together again, for, after all, he was her father.  He was robust and hearty over the sirloin and the leg of mutton.  He would call for a glass and press into it the red juice of the meat.

“Don’t peak and pine, girl.  Drink that.  It’ll put some blood into you.”

And Alice would refuse to drink it.

Next she refused to drink her milk at eleven.  She carried it out to Essy in the scullery.

“I wish you’d drink my milk for me, Essy.  It makes me sick,” she said.

“I don’t want your milk,” said Essy.

“Please—­” she implored her.

But Essy was angry.  Her face flamed and she banged down the dishes she was drying.  “I sail not drink it.  What should I want your milk for?  You can pour it in t’ pig’s bucket.”

And the milk would be left by the scullery window till it turned sour and Essy poured it into the pig’s bucket that stood under the sink.

* * * * *

Three weeks passed, and with every week Alice grew more bloodless, more slender, and more inert, and more and more like an unhappy ghost.  Her small face was smaller; there was a tinge of green in its honey-whiteness, and of mauve in the dull rose of her mouth.  And under her shallow breast her heart seemed to rise up and grow large, while the rest of Alice shrank and grew small.  It was as if her fragile little body carried an enormous engine, an engine of infernal and terrifying power.  When she lay down and when she got up and with every sudden movement its throbbing shook her savagely.

Night and morning she called to her sister:  “Oh Gwenda, come and feel my heart.  I do believe it’s growing.  It’s getting too big for my body.  It frightens me when it jumps about like that.”

It frightened Gwenda.

But it did not really frighten Alice.  She rejoiced in it, rather, and exulted.  After all, it was a good thing that she had not got pneumonia, which might have killed her as it had killed John Greatorex.  She had got what served her purpose better.  It served all her purposes.  If she had tried she could not have hit on anything that would have annoyed her father more or put him more conspicuously in the wrong.  To begin with, it was his doing.  He had worried her into it.  And he had brought her to a place which was the worst place conceivable for anybody with a diseased heart, since you couldn’t stir out of doors without going up hill.

Night and morning Alice stood before the looking-glass and turned out the lining of her lips and eyelids and saw with pleasure the pale rose growing paler.  Every other hour she laid her hand on her heart and took again the full thrill of its dangerous throbbing, or felt her pulse to assure herself of the halt, the jerk, the hurrying of the beat.  Night and morning and every other hour she thought of Rowcliffe.