Did they even hesitate? Was it destined from the beginning of time that just at that moment in a sodden desolate winter’s dawn, by just that naked riven tree, the life they had given and so richly endowed should be battered out of the young eager body in which they had set it, with nothing in it left that could any more upon earth give or receive love? So it happened. The day of blood dawned, and waxed and waned and ended. Many were killed in it, many lived to remember it as no more terrible than other days. But Harry died in it. The last boon they gave him was that he died very quickly. *CHAPTER XXIX* *LOVE* On a February morning Viola walked through the woods of Royd, along the path by which Harry had hastened to meet her in those bright summer days that were now so far off. Jane was with her. They talked as they walked, and sometimes even smiled. No one would have guessed at the sorrow that lay like a numbing weight upon one of them, and had so saddened the other that she seemed in these days to have left most of her childhood behind her. They talked of this and that, but at any moment they might fall into talk of Harry. They were never together for long without mention of him. Jane was the only person to whom Viola spoke of him freely. Lady Brent, who hid the ruin of her life and of her hopes as best she could, seemed to cling to her presence at Royd, but they could not talk together yet about Harry, though his name was not avoided between them. Mrs. Brent had been to Royd and had gone away again. Her visit had been painful enough; her sorrow was great and her laments had been ceaseless. But jealousy had prevented her trying to get a response from Viola. With Wilbraham, whom she had seen once since the fatal news had come, she had spoken of him, but then it had been as if she hardly understood what had happened. Her father had been very kind to her, but with no direct effort to console her for what was beyond consolation. She had come to Royd after a few days, and had been there ever since. They were talking of Sidney Pawle as they walked together through the wood, to which the leafless trees admitted gleams of winter sunshine, so different from the splashes of vivid light that had quivered through the leaves on to the deep rich greenness of summer. Sidney had gone away from Poldaven, but Jane had heard from her a few days before, with the news of her engagement, now permitted, though grudgingly. She had told Jane that she meant to be married whenever Noel could get his leave, but had not yet broken the intention to her parents. "I am sure she is right," Viola said. "Even if he gets killed afterwards she will have had him all her very own." Jane hesitated a moment before she said, rather brusquely: "She thinks of him as her very own now." "Oh, yes," said Viola, almost indifferently.