But she soon forgot everything in delight; for the snow shone, the long
slots of the rabbits and hares, the birds' tracks in orderly rows, the
deep footprints of sheep, all made her laugh by their vagaries, for
they ran in loops and in circles, and appeared like the crazy steps of
a sleep-walker to those who had not the key of their activity. Hazel's
own doings were like that; everyone's doings are like it, if one sees
the doings without the motive.

Plovers wheeled and cried desolately, seeing the soft relentless snow
between themselves and their green meadows, sad as those that see fate
drawing thick veils between themselves and the meadows of their hope
and joy.

At the foot of the Callow Hazel got out.

'Never tell him,' she said, looking up.

'Never in life,' said Vessons.

Hazel hesitated.

'Never tell him,' she added, 'unless he asks a deal and canna rest.'

'He may ask till Doomsday,' said Vessons, 'and he may be restless as
the ten thousand ghosses that trapse round Undern when the moon's low,
but I'll ne'er tell 'im.'

Hazel sighed, and turned to climb the hill.

'A missus at Undern!' said Andrew to the cob's ears as they trotted