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: 

“The revolt which has paralyzed the hay harvest on Sir Gerald Malloring’s Worcestershire estate and led to the introduction of strike-breakers, shows no sign of abatement.  A very wanton spirit of mischief seems to be abroad in this neighborhood.  No reason can be ascertained for the arson committed a short time back, nor for this further outbreak of discontent.  The economic condition of the laborers on this estate is admittedly rather above than below the average.”

And at once she thought:  ‘"Mischief!” What a shame!’ Were people, then, to know nothing of the real cause of the revolt—­nothing of the Tryst eviction, the threatened eviction of the Gaunts?  Were they not to know that it was on principle, and to protest against that sort of petty tyranny to the laborers all over the country, that this rebellion had been started?  For liberty! only simple liberty not to be treated as though they had no minds or souls of their own—­weren’t the public to know that?  If they were allowed