Early in the morning, hungering for the first glimpse of this new world, Grace hastened to her window and looked out upon Dartmoor. A lark, invisible in the blue above, found her heart in that dawn hour. The day was glorious, and the bird music dimmed her eyes, so that the girl had to blink a little before she could see the outspread world. Beneath her the farm threw its shadow upon reclaimed heath and ploughed land. New grey walls extended round about, and raw pinewood gates marked the enclosures. Beyond stretched out the cup of the mire, and sere rushes still spread a pallor upon it, where ridge after ridge of peat ranged away until detail vanished in the prevailing monochrome. Red sunrise fires touched this waste into genial colour, and threads of gold flashed through its texture where streamlets ran. Majestic size and fundamental simplicity marked the materials of the sunrise pageant. The Swincombe River sang on her way to Dart; Fox Tor's turrets, touched with rose, ascended southward, and beyond, looming darkly against the south, appeared the bosom of Cater's Beam. A spire of blue smoke, miles away in the brown distance, marked Lovey Lee's hut, while northerly rose infant plantations at Tor Royal, and the spring light of larches made a home upon the hill, and spoke of human enterprise. Grace drank the crystal air and listened to the lark. Then another sight arrested her, and she noted, upon a little mound at the edge of the river, a cross above three broad, shallow steps. It stood upon a square pedestal which had been bevelled by chamfering around the socket, and Grace knew that she saw the historic cenotaph of Childe the Hunter. The lark, the river, the cross, all spoke their proper message, and kind chance had willed that this first day of the new life should be lovely, heralded by sunshine, unfolded beneath blue skies. Grace Malherb's young spirit swam out through the golden gates of the morning, and she praised her God in wordless thoughts. A leaden day, haunted by low and crawling mists, a welcome of dripping rain, and the plover's melancholy mew, had awakened other emotions; but instead was this embodiment of triumphant spring--a dawn of cloudless glory and the lark's uplifted joy. Half an hour later Grace was watching Mrs. Beer milk "Marybud." Dinah--a brown-faced woman with neat wrists and ankles, grey eyes, and a face still pretty--looked up from under her sunbonnet, where her cheek was pressed against the cow, and saw a tall, rather thin maiden who had just stopped growing. With loving hand Nature had completed her girl's five feet eight inches, and now she was about to turn the child into a fair woman. This the dairymaid readily perceived. "Us must keep the best of the cream for 'e, Miss," she said. "You wants for they pretty hands to be plumper, an' your cheeks too." "How kind to think of such a thing! I can return the compliment, Mrs. Beer."