carpet of dead leaves at their feet, the woodpeckers busy, the
squirrels at play over their work. How free they all were!--
with what a sweet freedom. No danger that the brown rabbit
darting away from his form, would ever transgress pretty
limits!--no fear that vanity or folly or ill-humour would ever
touch the grace of those grey squirrels. As for the red ones!--
Miss Hazel brought her attention to the inside of the coach
for a minute, but the sight gave only colour and no check to
her musings. How strange of that particular red squirrel to
follow her steps as he had done the other day--to follow her
steps now, as she more than half suspected. What did he mean?
And what did she mean by her own deportment? Nothing, she
declared to herself:--but that red squirrels will bite
occasionally. There swept over her, sighing from among the
pine trees, the breath of a vague sorrow. In all the
emergencies that might come, in all that future progress, also
dim with its own blue haze, what was she to do? Mr. Falkirk
could take care of her property,--who could take care of _her?_
Deep was the look of her brown eyes, close and controlling the
pressure of her lips: the wrist where the three bracelets lay
felt the light grasp of her other hand.

The coach rolled on, through thickening air and darkening sky,
air thick also with a smell of smoke which it was odd no one
took note of; until the horses trotted round a sudden turn of
the road into the very cause of it all. The blue was spotted
now with faint red fire; with dull streaks as of beds of
coals, and little sharp points of flame. On both sides of the
road, creeping among the pines and leaping up into them, the
fire was raging. A low sound from Wych Hazel, a sound rather