It lay on the skylight of the studio across the road in cold silver; she stared at it intently and her thoughts began to slide one into the other.

The shadow of the big bell-handle in the wall grew short, lengthened again, and faded out as the moon went down behind the pasture and a hare came limping home across the road.

Then the dawn-wind washed through the upland grasses, and brought coolness with it, and the cattle lowed by the drought-shrunk river.

Maisie's head fell forward on the window-sill, and the tangle of black hair covered her arms.
'Maisie, wake up.

You'll catch a chill.' 'Yes, dear; yes, dear.' She staggered to her bed like a wearied child, and as she buried her face in the pillows she muttered, 'I think--I think....
But he ought to have written.' Day brought the routine of the studio, the smell of paint and turpentine, and the monotone wisdom of Kami, who was a leaden artist, but a golden teacher if the pupil were only in sympathy with him.