She turned away and went up the lane again, avoiding the inn and the riverside houses, walking slowly, her head down.  And a thought came, her first hopeful thought.  Could they not travel—­go round the world?  Would he give up his work for that—­that chance to break the spell?  Dared she propose it?  But would even that be anything more than a putting-off?  If she was not enough for him now, would she not be still less, if his work were cut away?  Still, it was a gleam, a gleam in the blackness.  She came in at the far end of the fields they called “the wild.”  A rose-leaf hue tinged the white cloud-banks, which towered away to the east beyond the river; and peeping over that mountain-top was the moon, fleecy and unsubstantial in the flax-blue sky.  It was one of nature’s moments of wild colour.  The oak-trees above the hedgerows had not lost their leaves, and in the darting, rain-washed light from the setting sun, had a sheen of old gold with heart of ivy-green; the hail-stripped beeches flamed with copper; the russet tufts of the ash-trees glowed.  And past Gyp, a single leaf blown off, went soaring, turning over and over, going up on the rising wind, up—­up, higher—­higher into the sky, till it was lost—­away.

The rain had drenched the long grass, and she turned back.  At the gate beside the linhay, a horse was standing.  It whinnied.  Hotspur, saddled, bridled, with no rider!  Why?  Where—­then?  Hastily she undid the latch, ran through, and saw Summerhay lying in the mud—­on his back, with eyes wide-open, his forehead and hair all blood.  Some leaves had dropped on him.  God!  O God!  His eyes had no sight, his lips no breath; his heart did not beat; the leaves had dropped even on his face—­in the blood on his poor head.  Gyp raised him—­stiffened, cold as ice!  She gave one cry, and fell, embracing his dead, stiffened body with all her strength, kissing his lips, his eyes, his broken forehead; clasping, warming him, trying to pass life into him; till, at last, she, too, lay still, her lips on his cold lips, her body on his cold body in the mud and the fallen leaves, while the wind crept and rustled in the ivy, and went over with the scent of rain.  Close by, the horse, uneasy, put his head down and sniffed at her, then, backing away, neighed, and broke into a wild gallop round the field. . . .

Old Pettance, waiting for Summerhay’s return to stable-up for the night, heard that distant neigh and went to the garden gate, screwing up his little eyes against the sunset.  He could see a loose horse galloping down there in “the wild,” where no horse should be, and thinking:  “There now; that artful devil’s broke away from the guv’nor!  Now I’ll ’ave to ketch ’im!” he went back, got some oats, and set forth at the best gait of his stiff-jointed feet.  The old horseman characteristically did not think of accidents.  The guv’nor had got off, no doubt, to unhitch that heavy gate—­the one you had to lift.  That ’orse—­he was a masterpiece of mischief!  His difference with the animal still rankled in a mind that did not easily forgive.