Produced by Al Haines WINDYRIDGE BY W. RILEY HERBERT JENKINS LIMITED YORK STREET, ST. JAMES'S LONDON S.W.1. 1915 _POPULAR EDITION._ _Printed in Great Britain by Love & Malcomson, Ltd., London and Redhill._ CONTENTS CHAPTER I. THE CALL OF THE HEATHER II. FARMER GOODENOUGH STATES HIS TERMS III. GRACE MEETS THE SQUIRE IV. THE STUDIO V. FARMER BROWN IS PHOTOGRAPHED VI. OVER THE MOOR TO ROMANTON VII. THE CYNIC DISCOURSES ON WOMAN VIII. CHRISTMAS DAY AT WINDYRIDGE IX. MRS. BROWN EXPLAINS X. INTRODUCES WIDOW ROBERTSHAW XI. GINTY RUNS AWAY XII. THE CYNIC EXAGGERATES XIII. WHITSUNTIDE EXPERIENCES XIV. BARJONA FALLS INTO THE TRAP XV. ROSE ARRIVES XVI. THE CYNIC SPEAKS IN PARABLES XVII. GRACE BECOMES DEJECTED XVIII. CARRIER TED RECEIVES NOTICE TO QUIT XIX. BARJONA'S DOWNFALL XX. THE CYNIC'S RENUNCIATION XXI. AT ZERMATT XXII. THE HEATHER PULLS XXIII. THE PARABLE OF THE HEATHER XXIV. ROGER TREFFIT INTRODUCES "MISS TERRY" XXV. THE RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL XXVI. THE CYNIC BRINGS NEWS OF GINTY XXVII. MOTHER HUBBARD HEARS THE CALL XXVIII. IN THE CRUCIBLE XXIX. THE GREAT STORM XXX. CALM AFTER STORM WINDYRIDGE CHAPTER I THE CALL OF THE HEATHER I am beginning to-day a new volume in the book of my life. I wrote the Prologue to it yesterday when I chanced upon this hamlet, and my Inner Self peremptorily bade me take up my abode here. My Inner Self often insists upon a course which has neither rhyme nor reason to recommend it, but as I am a woman I can plead instinct as the explanation--or shall I say the excuse?--of my eccentric conduct. Yet I don't think I have ever been quite so mad before as I fully realise that I am now, and the delight of it all is that I don't care and I don't repent, although twenty-four hours have passed since I impulsively asked the price of my cottage, and found that I could have it, studio and all, for a yearly rental of ten pounds. I have never been a tenant "on my own" before, and the knowledge that I am not going back to the attic bedroom and the hard "easy" chairs of the Chelsea lodging-house which has been my home for the last three years fills me with a great joy. I feel as if I should suffocate if I were to go back, but it is my soul which would be smothered. Subconsciously I have been panting for Windyridge for months, and my soul recognised the place and leaped to the discovery instantaneously. Yet how strange it all seems: how ridiculously fantastic! I cannot get away from that thought, and I am constantly asking myself whether Providence or Fate, or any other power with a capital letter at the beginning, is directing the move for my good, or whether it is just whimsicalness on my part, self-originated and self-explanatory--the explanation being that I am mad, as I said before.