She only seemed to sit stunned before the feeling that now the dream was not a sacred secret any longer and there grew within her, as she heard, a wild longing to fly to the Wood as if it were a living human thing who would hear her and understand--as if it would be like arms enclosing her.

Something would be there listening and she could talk to it and ask it what to do.
She had spoken to it as she staggered down the path--she had cried out to it with wild broken words, and then when she heard nothing she had fallen down upon the earth and the sobbing--sobbing--had begun.
"Donal!" she said.

"Donal!" And again, "Donal!" over and over.

But nothing answered, for even that which had been Donal--with the heavenly laugh and the blue in his gay eyes and the fine, long smooth hands--had been blown to fragments in a field somewhere--and there was nothing anywhere.
* * * * * She had heard no footsteps and she was sobbing still when a voice spoke at her side--the voice of some one standing near.
"It is Donal you want, poor child--no one else," it said.
That it should be this voice--Lord Coombe's! And that amazing as it was to hear it, she was not amazed and did not care! Her sobbing ceased so far as sobbing can cease on full flow.

She lay still but for low shuddering breaths.
"I have come because it is Donal," he said.