"I think I'd rather go at once--round by the road. Isn't there a road?" She rose and looked about her, taking farewell of the daffodils. "Yes, there's a road. Wouldn't you like a bunch?" He took a pair of scissors from the wall, and began to select his blooms. Alwynne followed him delightedly. She thought she would have a surprise for Clare, after all. And Elsbeth! Elsbeth was an after-thought. But she hoped there would be enough for Elsbeth. "Why won't you go back through the wood?" he said quietly, as, hands full, he at last replaced the scissors on their particular nail, and twitched a strand from the horse-tail of bass that hung beside them. "Tell me." Then, calmly, "Here--put your finger here, will you?" Mechanically she obeyed and he tied the knot that secured the great yellow sheaf and gave it to her. "Now tell me. What frightened you in the wood? What was wrong?" He spoke quietly, but his tone compelled her. "If you dreamed a dream----" she began unwillingly, "night after night--month after month--something ghastly----" "Yes--" he encouraged her. "Ah, well--at least you've the comfort of knowing it's a dream. But suppose, one day--you dreamt it while you were awake----?" "Dreamt what?" He guessed her meaning, but he was deliberately forcing her to reduce her terrors into words--the more they crystallised, the easier she would find it to face and destroy them. "Do you believe in hell?" she flung at him. "I should jolly well think so." "For children?" Her tone implored comfort. "I'm afraid so." "But how can it be fair? They're so little. They don't know right from wrong." "I knew a kid," he said meditatively, an eye on her tormented face, "only eight--used to act, if you please. Hung about London stage-doors, and bearded managers in their dens for a living. Quick little chap! Father drunk or ill; incapable, anyhow. The child supported them both. I've seen that child kept hanging about three or four hours on end. And what he knew! It made you sick and sorry. He must be twelve by now--getting on, I believe, poor kid! And a cheerful monkey! He's certainly had his hell, though." She had hardly listened, she was absorbed in her thoughts; but she caught at his last words---- "In this life? Oh, yes! That's cruel enough. But not afterwards? Not eternal damnation! I don't mind it for myself so much--but for a baby that can't understand why----It isn't possible, is it?" He began to laugh jollily. "Alwynne--you utter fool! Don't you believe in God?" "I suppose so," she admitted. "Of course, if you didn't----" "Yes," she thrust in. "Then it would be all right. I could be sure she was asleep--dead--like last year's leaves----" "But why should God complicate matters?" "Well--heaven follows--and hell--don't they? _Their worm dieth not_--and all the rest." "Oh, I follow."