She did not open the Bible but laid it on the edge of the bed, knelt and rested her forehead upon the worn leather cover. Until that was done a certain experience of life assured him that a girl is a locked coldness against a man’s approach. She had resisted as long as she could; then she had stolen over. The last thing that she remembered was her eyes crossing as she tried to focus upon the crunch of leaves as she lay heaving upon them, dampening them further with the outpouring of her sweat as it leaked from her clothing. Wood. Too much, perhaps. They had much to talk about, or rather Miss Prudence had. Immediately beneath her lay Willesden,—the most charming and secluded village in the neighbourhood of the metropolis—with its scattered farm-houses, its noble granges, and its old grey church-tower just peeping above a grove of rook-haunted trees. If the boy had done anything wrong back there in the States, his would be the brand of conscience to pay him out in full.
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