It made a noble picture, and Ruth watched it for a few moments, her face responding, answering to its beauty. She loved these landscapes of England, loved them not only with her present self, but also with some far-away depth of forgotten experience. And it seemed to her that she loved with them also those “unknown generations of dead men” to whom they had been equally dear. For these few moments, as she looked out over the edge of the downs, she forgot the haunting evil which was darkening all her days, forgot everything but the beauty of great space, of the wild rushing wind, the freedom—the escape. Odd bits of quotations came to her, as they always did in these moments; one, more insistent than the others, sang, put itself into music, clear, bell-like, mysterious: “When I have reached my journey’s end, And I am dead and free.” And in that moment her sense of being in touch with Dick Carey came back to her. Came flooding in like a great tide of help and encouragement and power. “And I am dead and free.” And yet people were afraid of death! The great winds came up from the sea across the earth-scented downs, shouting as they came. She loved them, and the big dark masses of cloud. She could have shouted too, for joy of that great sense of freedom, of power, of control, because she was one with those magnificent forces of nature. In her too was that strength and freedom which bowed only to the One who is All. The blood tingled in her veins; in the full sweep of the wind she was warm—warm with life. She forgot Violet Riversley cowering at her side. Forgot the little dogs crouching, tucked against her feet, and swept for one wild moment out into the immensity of a great freedom. Then, suddenly, the steel-blue line of sea broke into white, the storm-clouds met and crashed, and lightning, like the sharp thrust of a living sword, struck across the downs, struck and struck again. Heaven and earth and the waters under the earth shuddered and reeled in the grip of the storm, and Violet Riversley, screaming with terror, fell on her knees by Ruth, clasping her, crying: “Keep it away from me! Keep it away! God! I can’t bear it any longer! Keep it away!” And at her cry all the motherhood in Ruth’s nature, never concentrated only on the few, leapt into full life and splendour, spread its white wings of protection. And away and beyond her own love and pity she felt that of another. Away and above her own fight was a greater fight, infinitely greater. She picked the girl up into the shelter of her arms, and her whole heart cried out in a passion of pity. She said odd little foolish words of tenderness, as mothers will, for the form she held was as light as that of a little child; just a shell it felt, nothing more. And then, suddenly, the rain fell in one blinding rushing flood, drenching the little group to the skin, blotting out everything with its torrential flow.