The second and third steps brought cold sweat out upon her, but she told herself that the fourth was not quite so unbearable, and she stiffened her whole body, and muttered some words while she took a fifth and sixth which carried her into the tiny back kitchen.

“Father,” she said.  “Father, think of me now—­think of me!  Rosy, love me—­love me and pray that I may come home.  You—­you who have died, stand very near!”

If her father ever held her safe in his arms again—­if she ever awoke from this nightmare, it would be a thing never to let one’s mind hark back to again—­to shut out of memory with iron doors.

The pain had shot up and down, and her forehead was wet by the time she had reached the small back door.  Was it locked or bolted—­was it?  She put her hand gently upon the latch and lifted it without making any sound.  Thank God Almighty, it was neither bolted nor locked, the latch lifted, the door opened, and she slid through it into the shadow of the grey which was already almost the darkness of night.  Thank God for that, too.

She flattened herself against the outside wall and listened.  He was having difficulty in managing Childe Harold, who snorted and pulled back, offended and made rebellious by his savagely impatient hand.  Good Childe Harold, good boy!  She could see the massed outline of the trees of the spinney.  If she could bear this long enough to get there—­even if she crawled part of the way.  Then it darted through her mind that he would guess that she would be sure to make for its cover, and that he would go there first to search.

“Father, think for me—­you were so quick to think!” her brain cried out for her, as if she was speaking to one who could physically hear.

She almost feared she had spoken aloud, and the thought which flashed upon her like lightning seemed to be an answer given.  He would be convinced that she would at once try to get away from the house.  If she kept near it—­somewhere—­somewhere quite close, and let him search the spinney, she might get away to its cover after he gave up the search and came back.  The jagged pain had settled in a sort of impossible anguish, and once or twice she felt sick.  But she would die in the open—­and she knew Rosalie was frightened by her absence, and was praying for her.  Prayers counted and, yet, they had all prayed yesterday.

“If I were not very strong, I should faint,” she thought.  “But I have been strong all my life.  That great French doctor—­I have forgotten his name—­said that I had the physique to endure anything.”

She said these things that she might gain steadiness and convince herself that she was not merely living through a nightmare.  Twice she moved her foot suddenly because she found herself in a momentary respite from pain, beginning to believe that the thing was a nightmare—­that nothing mattered—­because she would wake up presently—­so she need not try to hide.