apartness from self, which is the property of fever, came on her, so that she seemed to see herself sitting there, waiting, and thought:  ’I shall see myself dead, floating among the reeds.  I shall see the birds wondering above me!’ And, suddenly, she broke into a storm of dry sobbing, and all things vanished from her, save just the rocking of her body, the gasping of her breath, and the sound of it in her ears.  Her boy—­her boy—­and his poor hair!  “Away, my rolling river!” Swaying over, she lay face down, clasping at the wet grass and the earth.

The sun rose, laid a pale bright streak along the water, and hid himself again.  A robin twittered in the willows; a leaf fell on her bare ankle.

Winton, who had been hunting on Saturday, had returned to town on Sunday by the evening tram, and gone straight to his club for some supper.  There falling asleep over his cigar, he had to be awakened when they desired to close the club for the night.  It was past two when he reached Bury Street and found a telegram.

“Something dreadful happened to Mr. Summerhay.  Come quick.—­ Betty.”

Never had he so cursed the loss of his hand as during the time that followed, when Markey had to dress, help his master, pack bags, and fetch a taxi equipped for so long a journey.  At half-past three they started.  The whole way down, Winton, wrapped in his fur coat, sat a little forward on his seat, ready to put his head through the window and direct the driver.  It was a wild night, and he would not let Markey, whose chest was not strong, go outside to act as guide.  Twice that silent one, impelled by feelings too strong even for his respectful taciturnity, had spoken.

“That’ll be bad for Miss Gyp, sir.”

“Bad, yes—­terrible.”

And later: 

“D’you think it means he’s dead, sir?”

Winton answered sombrely: 

“God knows, Markey!  We must hope for the best.”

Dead!  Could Fate be cruel enough to deal one so soft and loving such a blow?  And he kept saying to himself:  “Courage.  Be ready for the worst.  Be ready.”

But the figures of Betty and a maid at the open garden gate, in the breaking darkness, standing there wringing their hands, were too much for his stoicism.  Leaping out, he cried: 

“What is it, woman?  Quick!”

“Oh, sir!  My dear’s gone.  I left her a moment to get her a cup of tea.  And she’s run out in the cold!”

Winton stood for two seconds as if turned to stone.  Then, taking Betty by the shoulder, he asked quietly: 

“What happened to him?”

Betty could not answer, but the maid said: 

“The horse killed him at that linhay, sir, down in ‘the wild.’  And the mistress was unconscious till quarter of an hour ago.”

“Which way did she go?”

“Out here, sir; the door and the gate was open—­can’t tell which way.”