It was the Polchester View that she chose to-day, but as they started through the deep lanes down the St.Dreot's hill she was startled and disturbed by the strange aspect which everything wore to her.

She had not as yet realised the great shock her father's death had been; she was exhausted, spiritually and physically, in spite of the deep sleep of the night before.

The form and shape of the world was a little strained and fantastic, the colours uncertain, now vivid, now vanishing, the familiar trees, hedges, clouds, screens, as it were, concealing some scene that was being played behind them.

But beyond and above all other sensations she was conscious of her liberty.

She struggled against this; she should be conscious, before everything, of her father's loss.
But she was not.