And Nedda thought:  ’The world is dressed in living creatures!  Trees, flowers, grass, insects, ourselves—­woven together—­the world is dressed in life!  I understand Uncle Tod’s feeling!  If only it would rain till they have to send these strike-breakers back because there’s no hay worth fighting about!’ Suddenly her heart beat fast.  The wicket gate had clicked.  There was something darker than the darkness coming along the path!  Scared, but with all protective instinct roused, she leaned out, straining to see.  A faint grating sound from underneath came up to her.  A window being opened!  And she flew to her door.  She neither barred it, however, nor cried out, for in that second it had flashed across her:  ’Suppose it’s he!  Gone out to do something desperate, as Tryst did!’ If it were, he would come up-stairs and pass her door, going to his room.  She opened it an inch, holding her breath.  At first, nothing!  Was it fancy?  Or was some one noiselessly rifling the room down-stairs?  But surely no one would steal of Uncle Tod, who, everybody knew, had nothing valuable.  Then came a sound as of bootless feet pressing the stairs stealthily!  And the thought darted through her, ‘If it isn’t he, what shall I do?’ And then—­ ‘What shall I do—­if it is!’

Desperately she opened the door, clasping her hands on the place whence her heart had slipped down to her bare feet.  But she knew it was he before she heard him whisper:  “Nedda!” and, clutching him by the sleeve, she drew him in and closed the door.  He was wet through, dripping; so wet that the mere brushing against him made her skin feel moist through its thin coverings.

“Where have you been?  What have you been doing?  Oh, Derek!”

There was just light enough to see his face, his teeth, the whites of his eyes.

“Cutting their tent-ropes in the rain.  Hooroosh!”

It was such a relief that she just let out a little gasping “Oh!” and leaned her forehead against his coat.  Then she felt his wet arms round her, his wet body pressed to hers, and in a second he was dancing with her a sort of silent, ecstatic war dance.  Suddenly he stopped, went down on his knees, pressing his face to her waist, and whispering:  “What a brute, what a brute!  Making her wet!  Poor little Nedda!”

Nedda bent over him; her hair covered his wet head, her hands trembled on his shoulders.  Her heart felt as if it would melt right out of her; she longed so to warm and dry him with herself.  And, in turn, his wet arms clutched her close, his wet hands could not keep still on her.  Then he drew back, and whispering:  “Oh, Nedda!  Nedda!” fled out like a dark ghost.  Oblivious that she was damp from head to foot, Nedda stood swaying, her eyes closed and her lips just open; then, putting out her arms, she drew them suddenly in and clasped herself. . . .

When she came down to breakfast the next morning, he had gone out already, and Uncle Tod, too; her aunt was writing at the bureau.  Sheila greeted her gruffly, and almost at once went out.  Nedda swallowed coffee, ate her egg, and bread and honey, with a heavy heart.  A newspaper lay open on the table; she read it idly till these words caught her eye: