She stripped off her gloves, dreamily accepting her goodluck, and leaving the nurse to spread rugs beneath the little wooden seat, and unwrap the biscuits and the bottle of milk, she wandered off aimlessly through the sun-splashed grove, her thoughts still caught like flies in a web of make-believe, yet aware and enjoying with all her sensitive little soul the gallantry of the autumn morning. It was perfect day. Its colours shone through the clear air like pebbles freshened in water, and away upon the sky-line the threadlike roads and midget trees were as cleanly defined as the great trunks of the beeches themselves, that stood, brown and naked and stately, like a troop of tall savages, against the brilliant sky. Overhead the jolly wind that lived on the hill-top and never went to sleep, was hard at work as usual, scattering the clouds in every direction, like a bad dog frightening sheep, tugging and tearing at the beech boughs, and sending down the last of the leaves in golden gusts into the deep pits at the roots of the trees, that were half filled already by generations of leaves, and were as safe and soft to jump into as a feather-bed. Laura, forced into a trot and then a run, was caught up at last in a sudden scamper of twigs and dust and stray leaves, and whirled along till she felt as if she were flying, and clutched at a trail of bramble to steady herself and get her breath; but the peremptory wind would have no lagging, and, catching at her little round hat, lifted it off her head and trundled it along in front of her like a schoolboy dribbling a football, till they were clear of the trees, when it turned tail in its sudden whimsical way, leaving the hat upon the ground and Laura panting beside it. For some slow, pleasant minutes she lay still, listening to the footsteps of the wind and her own heart-beats, with her cheek pressed close to the thymy earth, still besprinkled, late as it was, with milk-wort and rest-harrow and yellow sparks of tormentil, that glimmered like flung match-ends in fuel that was a clump of spent brown heather. The bright, thin sunshine settled lightly upon her like a gossamer scarf or a baby’s breath upon your cheek before it kisses you. Through shut eyes she enjoyed the spacious peace of the hill-top, and the delicate warmth seemed a physical expression of the sensation of well-being that was stealing over her, a sensation that, in the old days, had been but another word for her mother’s presence. The wind, raging again in the beech-grove, was a turbulent giant guarding the entrance to enchanted lands: its far-away fury heightened the impression of expectant silence. Through her pleasant drowsiness she had an odd feeling that something, something important, was about to happen. Lazily she sat up and looked about her.