thick and close to the pane. She threw open the window, and the night
entered palpably like slow water, black and sweet and cool.

From the unseen road came the noise of wheels and of a horse that in
trotting clanked forever one shoe against another.

It was young Rowcliffe, the new doctor, driving over from Morthe to
Upthorne on the Moor, where John Greatorex lay dying.

The pale light of his lamps swept over the low garden wall.

Suddenly the four hoofs screamed, grinding together in the slide of
their halt. The doctor had jerked his horse up by the Vicarage gate.

The door at the back opened and shut again, suddenly, sharply, as if
in fear.

A voice swung out like a mournful bell into the night. A dalesman's
voice; such a voice as the lonely land fashions sometimes for its own
delight, drawling and tender, hushed by the hills and charged with the
infinite, mysterious sadness of their beauty.

It belonged to young Greatorex and it came from the doorway of the
Vicarage yard.

"That yo, Dr. Rawcliffe? I wuss joost gawn oop t'road t' see ef yo
wuss coomin'."

"Of course I was coming."