She was calling from the dell. For an answer he sat down where he
was, on the dust-bespattered margin. She could call as loud as
she liked. The devil had done much, but he should not take him to
her.

"Rickie!"--and it came with the tones of an angel. He drove his
fingers into his ears, and invoked the name of Gerald. But there
was no sign, neither angry motion in the air nor hint of January
mist. June--fields of June, sky of June, songs of June. Grass of
June beneath him, grass of June over the tragedy he had deemed
immortal. A bird called out of the dell: "Rickie!"

A bird flew into the dell.

"Did you take me for the Dryad?" she asked. She was sitting down
with his head on her lap. He had laid it there for a moment
before he went out to die, and she had not let him take it away.

"I prayed you might not be a woman," he whispered.

"Darling, I am very much a woman. I do not vanish into groves and
trees. I thought you would never come."

"Did you expect--?"

"I hoped. I called hoping."

Inside the dell it was neither June nor January. The chalk walls
barred out the seasons, and the fir-trees did not seem to feel
their passage. Only from time to time the odours of summer