She fixed her eyes upon it and ran, keeping always as far as possible in the shadow of the hedge, gazing fearfully every now and then down along the valley for the white smoke of the train. . She must get to the vestry. And yet—such is the buoyancy of youth—within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account. At this gate two paths meet. But he was now too deeply moved to trace a certain unsatisfactoriness to its source in a mixture of metaphors. She turned her cheek to the cold sill; and by and by the sill grew warm and wet with tears.
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