At moments through the mist came the figure of the cook, stout,
florid, triumphant. Maggie regarded her contemptuously. "You cannot
touch me," she thought. Of her father she would never think again.
With both hands she flung all her memories of him into the mist to
be lost for ever . . .
She came suddenly upon a lonely farm-house. She knew the place,
Borhedden; it had often been a favourite walk of hers from the
Vicarage to Borhedden. The farmer let rooms there and, because the
house was very old, some of the rooms were fine, with high ceilings,
thick stone walls, and even some good panelling. The view too was
superb, across to the Broads and the Molecatcher, or back to the
Dreot Woods, or to the dim towers of Polchester Cathedral. The air
here was fine--one of the healthiest spots in Glebeshire.
The farm to-day was transfigured by the misty glow; cows and horses
could be faintly seen, ricks burnt with a dim fire. Somewhere
dripping water falling on to stone gave a vocal spirit to the
obscurity. The warm air seemed to radiate about the house like a
flame that is obscured by sunlight.
The stealthy movements of the animals, the dripping of the water,
were the only sounds.
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