He was not surprised, nor indeed greatly grieved. His heart was high and very steady as he turned into his father's study. The winter had tried the old man, who was no longer now able to take the hill as formerly. Instead the pair dawdled along to Beech-hangar; and there, sitting among the tree-roots, under the fine web of winter beech-twigs, Ernie told his father the essential fact about his love.
"I've lost her, dad," he said in his simple way.
The old man's blue eyes, that seemed to brighten as his body dulled, shone on him mysteriously.
"Feel for her," he said, reaching out his hands like a blind man. "You'll find her." He added after a pause. "I don't think she's far."
Ernie chewed a grass-blade.
"I shall find her," he said with quiet confidence, "because my heart ain't fell down—and won't."
The old man was still blind and feeling.
"Spin," he said. "Then pounce."
Ernie nodded.
"That's it, and sooner or later my fly'll fall into the web."