And so—let us sit down, oh, my thoughts, not masters any more, but weary servants of my will, and discover how best we may hurt Justin.... Because it is to do him good—to wake him up. That is settled, though.... No need to go into that.... Some need though—if only to satisfy rebellious thoughts! You do not ask a woman to tear her heart out of her body for honour or justice or repentance’ sake——But if it be for Justin? Let us find out quickly, before we grow selfish again, what will hurt our Justin.... Not a little thing.... A big thing.... A big thing to him.... A thing he will never forget—or forgive.... From the bend of the road a pitter-pat and clatter of wheels warned her that the market carts would be passing, and at the next gate she turned aside into the fields that fringed the Priory woods. She wandered through the sleeping corn, following the footways, and so came at last to the familiar unregarded notice boards and the high tarred gate, and the hurdles that held back the trees as a rope checks the straining populace at a procession. And as there the children will be always slipping under it and out into the cleared way, so ever and again there were patches of polled hazel and seedling oak and yard-high bracken running out into the no-man’s-land between the hedgerow and the plough. The place was thick with ghostly summer flowers—mallow, scarcely visible, foxglove and corncockle and knapweed, bled of their hearty crimsons by the vampire night, and all the little pink and yellow field flowers, dim white as the huge empty sky yawning over them. She stood a moment uncertainly by the padlocked gate, and then, with a vague gesture, waded through the strip of bracken and, sitting down, let herself sink backward into the deeps of the hedge. The foxgloves and the sorrel swayed and shook above her and she pulled them down to her for their freshness’ sake, and let them spring free again, and then lay back once more, her lips besmeared with dew and pollen, her hands clasped under her head, and watched the mists, not rising from the earth but thinning and vanishing where they lay, and the grey surface of the corn warming to bronze-tipped green, and the dawn-light spreading like a smile across the sky, and had no answering smile for it, but turned where she lay, stopping her ears against the riot of the birds, hiding her face from the sun, and at last falling, for very weariness, into a cramped, uneasy drowse.