She was in a curious frame of mind, and found her own emotions difficult to analyse.  The momentary glimpse she had just had of John Walden had filled her with a strangely tender compassion.  Why did he look so worn and worried?  Had he missed her?  Had her two months and more of absence seemed as long to him as they had to her?  She wondered!  Anon, she asked herself why she wondered!  What did it matter to her what he thought, or how he passed his days?  Then a sudden rush of colour warmed her cheeks, and a light came into her eyes.  It did matter!—­there was no getting away from it,—­it did matter very much what he thought, and it had become of paramount importance to her to know how he passed his days!

Deep in her heart a secret sweet consciousness lay nestled,—­a consciousness, subtly feminine, which told her that she was held in precious estimation by at least one man,—­and that she had advanced towards her most cherished desire of love so far as to have become ‘dear to someone else.’  And that ’someone else’—­who was he?  Oh, well!—­nobody in particular!—­only a country clergyman,—­a poor creature, so the world might say, to build romances upon!  Yet she was building them fast.  One after the other they shaped themselves like cloud-castles in the airy firmament of her dreams, and she permitted herself to dwell on the possible joys they suggested.  Very simple joys too!—­such as the completion of the rose-window in the church of St. Rest,—­he would be pleased if that were done—­yes!—­ she was sure he would be pleased!—­and she had managed, during her sojourn in Brittany, to secure some of the loveliest old stained glass, dating from the twelfth century, which she meant to give him to-morrow when he came to see her.  To-morrow!  What a long time it seemed till then!  And suppose he did not come?  Well, then she would go and see him herself, and would tell him just why she had gone away from home, and why she had not written, to him or to anybody else in the neighbourhood,—­and then—­and then—–­

Here she started at the sound of a sudden ’tally-ho!’—­the hounds had rallied—­a fox was ’drawn,’—­the whole field was astir, and with a musical blast of the horn, the hunt swept on in a flash of scarlet and white, black, brown and grey, across the moor.  Maryllia gave herself up to the excitement of the hour, and galloped along, her magnificent mare ‘Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt’ scenting sport in the wind and enjoying the wild freedom allowed her by a loose rein and the light weight she bore.  On, on!—­with the wet chill perfume of fallen leaves rising from the earth on which the eager hoofs of the horses trampled,—­on, always on, in the track of stealthy Reynard, over dips and hollows in the ground and shallow pools fringed with gaunt sedges and twisted brambles,—­on, still on, crossing and re-crossing lines of scent where the hounds appeared for the moment at a loss, till they dashed off again towards the farther woods.