“He asked me to marry him, just over there, under that biggest tree. It was covered with blossom then, and there were white butterflies about. Oh, he frightened me!” Her voice rose in a little cry. “He frightened me. I hate to think of it even now. I felt as if he could make me do it, whether I wanted to or no. He kissed me—like no one had ever kissed me before—I could have killed him, I hated him so. But even then I was afraid he might make me do it. I was afraid. I would not see him again alone, and I never felt really safe till I was engaged to Dick, and even then”—her voice dropped very low—“I was glad when Karl was killed. Do you think it was very horrid of me? I couldn’t help it. Sometimes, even now, I dream in the night that he has never died, that he has come back and can make me do what he likes.” She shuddered. “I have to shake myself quite wide awake before I know it is only a beastly dream. And I haven’t Dick now any more.” She looked back over her shoulder and shivered again. “You are sure that cold feeling was just quite ordinary?” “Why, yes,” said Ruth. “What should it be?” “I don’t know. Let us get to the house on the wall.” She hurried on, and her slender feet in white went up the rough steps as one at home. She stood for a few moments and looked round, while the old memories of what seemed like another life came thronging back. Then she climbed up into the middle seat, and sat there, gathering herself together as a child does when it is concentrating deeply. In the flickering shadow of the leaves above and around, her face looked wan, mysterious almost, her strange golden eyes curiously alive, yet gazing, it seemed, into another world. Her seat in the circle looked out across the great endless valley stretching away to the west. Immediately below was the big hay field, ready now for cutting. It fell in a gentle slope to the river, which, diving under the roadway by the front gate, curved round the garden, and broke out into a miniature pond at the bottom of the field, before it vanished among the bracken where the territory of Thorpe ended and the great beautiful forest of the Condor estate commenced. In the pond were water-lilies, rose-coloured and white, and tall brown bulrushes, all in their season of perfection. Most noticeable in the noble stretch of landscape beyond was a clump of beech-trees on the ridge of the near side of the valley, lifted up sheer against the height of the sky. They had caught for many years the full blast of the winds coming up from the north-east, and only the topmost branches survived, leaving their straight exquisite trunks bare. To-day, standing high above the blue distances, in the shimmering light and heat, they had about them more than usual of majesty and mystery. Violet Riversley sat very still. The myriads of summer leaves rustled softly; here and there a bird sang. Presently she began to speak, even as another bird might have begun to sing.