They had emerged at the head of a shallow valley--one of those wide

hollows in the North Downs that are like a great length of tapestry held

loosely by four people. It was raining. Byrne looked at the dark blue

dots rapidly appearing on the sleeves of Helena's dress. They walked on

a little way. The rain increased. Helena looked about for shelter.

'Here,' said Byrne--'here is our tent--a black tartar's--ready pitched.' He stooped under the low boughs of a very large yew tree that stood just

back from the path. She crept after him. It was really a very good

shelter. Byrne sat on the ledge of a root, Helena beside him. He looked

under the flap of the black branches down the valley. The grey rain was

falling steadily; the dark hollow under the tree was immersed in the

monotonous sound of it. In the open, where the bright young corn shone

intense with wet green, was a fold of sheep. Exposed in a large pen on

the hillside, they were moving restlessly; now and again came the

'tong-ting-tong' of a sheep-bell. First the grey creatures huddled in

the high corner, then one of them descended and took shelter by the

growing corn lowest down. The rest followed, bleating and pushing each

other in their anxiety to reach the place of desire, which was no whit

better than where they stood before.

'That's like us all,' said Byrne whimsically. 'We're all penned out on a

wet evening, but we think, if only we could get where someone else is,

it would be deliciously cosy.' Helena laughed swiftly, as she always did when he became whimsical and

fretful. He sat with his head bent down, smiling with his lips, but his

eyes melancholy. She put her hand out to him. He took it without

apparently observing it, folding his own hand over it, and unconsciously

increasing the pressure.

'You are cold,' he said.

'Only my hands, and they usually are,' she replied gently.

'And mine are generally warm.' 'I know that,' she said. 'It's almost the only warmth I get now--your

hands. They really are wonderfully warm and close-touching.' 'As good as a baked potato,' he said.

She pressed his hand, scolding him for his mockery.

'So many calories per week--isn't that how we manage it?' he asked. 'On

credit?' She put her other hand on his, as if beseeching him to forgo his irony,

which hurt her. They sat silent for some time. The sheep broke their

cluster, and began to straggle back to the upper side of the pen.




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