beech wood, a couple of mares gave birth to strong foals—thus were all things accomplished in their season at Morton. But Anna, whose word was now absolute law, had become one of those who have done with smiling; a quiet, enduring, grief-stricken woman, in whose eyes was a patient, waiting expression. She was gentle to Stephen, yet terribly aloof; in their hour of great need they must still stand divided these two, by the old, insidious barrier. Yet Stephen clung closer and closer to Morton; she had definitely given up all idea of Oxford. In vain did Puddle try to protest, in vain did she daily remind her pupil that Sir Philip had set his heart on her going; no good, for Stephen would always reply: ‘Morton needs me; Father would want me to stay, because he taught me to love it.’ And Puddle was helpless. What could she do, bound as she was by the tyranny of silence? She dared not explain the girl to herself, dared not say: ‘For your own sake you must go to Oxford, you’ll need every weapon your brain can give you; being what you are you’ll need every weapon,’ for then certainly Stephen would start to question, and her teacher’s very position of trust would forbid her to answer those questions. Outrageous, Puddle would feel it to be, that wilfully selfish tyranny of silence evolved by a crafty old ostrich of a world for its own well-being and comfort. The world hid its head in the sands of convention, so that seeing nothing it might avoid Truth. It said to itself: ‘If seeing’s believing, then I don’t want to see—if silence is golden, it is also, in this case, very expedient.’ There were moments when Puddle would feel sorely tempted to shout out loud at the world. Sometimes she thought of giving up her post, so weary was she of fretting over Stephen. She would think: ‘What’s the good of my worrying myself sick? I can’t help the girl, but I can help myself—seems to me it’s a matter of pure self-preservation.’ Then all that was loyal and faithful in her would protest: ‘Better stick it, she’ll probably need you one day and you ought to be here to help her.’ So Puddle decided to stick it. They did very little work, for Stephen had grown idle with grief and no longer cared for her studies. Nor could she find consolation in her writing, for sorrow will often do one of two things—it will either release the springs of inspiration, or else it will dry up those springs completely, and in Stephen’s case it had done the latter. She longed for the comforting outlet of words, but now the words would always evade her. ‘I can’t write any more, it’s gone from me, Puddle—he’s taken it with him.’ And then would come tears, and the tears would go splashing down on to the paper, blotting the poor inadequate lines that meant little or nothing as their author well knew, to her own added desolation.