She was quite motionless; the folded linen on her head kept off her face the vertical rays of the sun, but they fell unfelt on all her crouched form, on her closed hands that were resting on her drawn-up knees, and on her tired feet, past which the adder slid unseen.
She had no knowledge, no experience, but she had imagination.
Imagination showed her the world that waited for him outside that girdle of the moors that held her fast. The vision was in no way like the real world, but it was lovelier, richer, fuller; such a world as haunts poets in the dreams of a summer's night, crowded with shapes divine and clothed in light.
Here he was hers, but there———
She had no hope, no illusions.
She never thought once that he would say to her, 'come also;' she never doubted that he would take his freedom as the storm-swallow had done, spreading its wings without once looking back.
Whether she stayed there moments or hours she knew not; the great heat falling upon her seemed to numb her as if it were a rain of ice. Her eyes grew strained and
