half-past nine to-morrow morning. That would be in good time for the
funeral, a ceremony that was to be conducted by the Rev. Tom
Trefusis, the sporting vicar of Cator Hill, the neighbouring parish.

The house now was empty and silent. They must escape from that
figure, now decent, clean, and solemn, lying upon the bed upstairs.
Mathew took his niece by the hand and said:

"My dear, a little fresh air is the thing for both of us. It will
cheer you up."

So they went out for a walk together. Maggie knew, with a deep and
intimate experience, every lane and road within twenty miles' radius
of St. Dreot's, There was the high-road that went through Gator Hill
to Clinton and then to Polwint; here were the paths across the
fields to Lucent, the lanes that led to the valley of the Lisp, all
the paths like spiders' webs through Rothin Wood, from whose curve
you could see Polchester, grey and white, with its red-brown roofs
and the spires of the Cathedral thrusting like pointing fingers into
the heaven. It was the Polchester View that she chose to-day, but as
they started through the deep lanes down the St. Dreot's hill she
was startled and disturbed by the strange aspect which everything
wore to her. She had not as yet realised the great shock her
father's death had been; she was exhausted, spiritually and
physically, in spite of the deep sleep of the night before. The form
and shape of the world was a little strained and fantastic, the
colours uncertain, now vivid, now vanishing, the familiar trees,
hedges, clouds, screens, as it were, concealing some scene that was
being played behind them. But beyond and above all other sensations
she was conscious of her liberty. She struggled against this; she