He was once more in the small motor-car on the top of Duncton Hill, and looked out over the Weald of Sussex to the Blackdown and Hindhead, and the slopes of Leith Hill, imagined rather than seen, in the summer haze.
He saw Joan Whitworth's rapt face, and heard her eager cry.
"Look out over the Weald of Sussex, so that you can carry it away with you in your breast.

Isn't it worth everything--banishment, suffering--everything?
Not the people so much, but the earth itself and the jolly homes upon it!" A passage followed which disturbed him: "_There are other things too.

My magnolia is still in bud.

I dread a blight before the flower opens._" It was a cry of distress--nothing less than that--uttered in some moment of intense depression.

Else it would never have been allowed to escape at all.
Hillyard folded up the letter.