THE wild geese were flying north against a windy sky. To Crispin, contrasting this flight with the one he had watched with Hildegarde on the day of her mother's funeral, it seemed symbolic of the change which had taken place in his attitude towards the woman he loved. Then there had been that wide and radiant sky, the geese in majestic formation against its serenity. And he, too, had been serene. Hildegarde had promised nothing, but his faith in a future that would bring her to him had been infinite. He had seen always ahead a life which she would share.
And now, blown this way and that by doubts, he felt his fellowship with those straining birds above him. Up there among the flying clouds weakness would be fatal. The race was to the swift. The battle to the strong.
But could one use one's strength against indifference? It had come to that. Hildegarde wrote intermittently. Her letters were always charming, but the warmth of friendliness almost of affection, which had once been apparent was lacking. It was useless to try to read into those pleasant pages something which did not exist. He need deceive himself no longer. Hilde-
