Christopher and Patricia were fond of this rough land that lay beyond the actual park. In early days it had made a glorious stage for "desert islanders," with the isle-studded lake to bound it, whose further shore for the nonce melted into vague mistiness. Later on, when desert islands were out of fashion, it was still good ground to explore, and through the woods away over the hill one came to a delectable wide-spread country, where uncultivated down mingled with cornfields and stretches of clover, a country bounded by long, spacious curving lines of hill and dale, tree-capped ridges and bare contours, with here and there the gash of a chalk pit gleaming white. Just at a point where a stretch of down-land ran into a little copse, was a small barrow. A round green mound, memento of a forgotten history that was real and visible enough in its own day, as real as the two children of "the Now," with whom the spot was a favourite camping ground. Patricia, who knew all about barrows from Nevil, used to invent wonderful stories of this one, to which Christopher lent a critical attention, adding here and there a practical touch. It was he who first suggested exploring the mound, and one day they dragged heavy spades thither and worked hard for an hour or two without great result, when suddenly Patricia began shovelling back her pile of brown earth with feverish haste. "I don't like it. It is horrid," she panted in return to Christopher's protests. The idea of desecration was so strong on her that when her companion still indignantly protested, the black passion leapt up to life and she flung round at him. It was then that Christopher made his discovery. He saw the mad flare in her face and flung his strong arms round her from behind, and held her against him with her hands in his gripped fast to her breast. "Steady on, Patricia," he said sharply, "don't get frightened. You aren't going to get wild this time." There was no alarm or anger in his voice and a queer, new note of firmness and force. She struggled ineffectually a moment and then came the dangerous quietness that waited a chance. He could feel her muscles strained and rigid still. "Patricia," he said quite loudly, "drop it. I won't have it, do you hear? You _can_ stop if you like now, and you've got to." She bent back her head and looked at him, her child face old and worn and disfigured with her still burning fury. She looked right in his eyes: his met hers steady and hard as flints, and through the blind passion of her look he saw her soul leap up, appealing, piteous, and by heaven-taught instinct, he answered that. "It's all right, Patricia, you are safe enough. I'm not going to let you make a fool of yourself, my dear; don't be afraid. Stop thinking. Look at the dark shadows over there--on the cornfield. They'll cut that next week."