water out of which she refused to be lifted.

Leonie was youth incarnate, causing even the courteous folk of Devon to
turn and stare as she swung past with a cheery greeting in a skirt and
hob-nailed boots ending at her knees.

For the first month, as one always does in Devon, she had walked
herself to the verge of scragginess, then had gradually put on weight,
as is the correct method. Her whistle could be heard in the woods and
fields, and on the beach from Lee to Hartland way; all the country folk
loved her, and scolded her for the risks she took in swimming, and she
seemingly had no care in the world.

But the great heat of summer, the shriek of the wind, and the scream of
the birds in autumn would bring a little pucker between her brows; the
storm would drive her spirits up to breaking point, the calm would
leave her eyes full of trouble; in the woods she would stop and turn to
listen, then frown and trudge along between the trees.

She was not at rest, for an unconfessed fear, a spook without name or
shape, was plucking at her will-power and her heart, a phantom of which
she would rather have died than have said one word.

So she stood twisting the blind cord and watching the rocks as they
gradually disappeared under the swirling waters.

Susan Hetth sat near the fire, which is oft-times necessary in the
spring at Lee, and tapped in irritation, and most irritatingly, with
her foot against the low fender.