It was here, on the edge of the Rafiel Road that skirted the wood, that she had once seen the dog-man eating his luncheon out of a red pocket-handkerchief.

There was no sign of him to-day.

All was silent and still.

Only the little wood uttered little sighs of content beneath the flying clouds.

Hamlet, tired with his racing after imaginary rabbits, walked quietly along by Mary's side.
What was she to do?
She had once again the desperate feeling that something stronger than she had swept down upon her and was forcing her to do this thing.