When this began, Hazel was in the open, half-way to Wolfbatch. She sat
down on the step of a stile, and sighed with relief at the ease it gave
her foot. Then, far off she heard the sharp miniature sound, very neat
and staccato, of a horse galloping. She held her breath to hear if it
would turn down a by-road, but it came on. It came on, and grew in
volume and in meaning, became almost ominous in the frozen silence.
Hazel rose and stood in the fitful moonlight. She felt that the
approaching hoof-beats were for her. They were the one sound in a dead
world, and she nearly cried out at the thought of their dying in the
distance. They must not; they should not.

'Maybe it's a farmer and his missus as have drove a good bargain, and
the girl told to get supper fire-hot agen they come. Maybe they'll give
me a lift! Maybe they'll say "Bide the night over?"'

She knew it was only a foolish dream; nevertheless, she stood well in
the light, a slim, brow-beaten figure, the colour of her dress wan in
the grey world.

A trap came swaying round the corner. Hazel cried out beseechingly, and
the driver pulled the horse up short.

'I must be blind drunk,' he soliloquized, 'seeing ghosts!'

'Oh, please sir!' Hazel could say no more, for the tears that
companionship unfroze.

The man peered at her.