"It must," said the other, "if you keep on spinning till you cover the uttermost parts of heaven and earth."
His father's words, as always, made a deep impression on Ernie's suggestible mind.
Ruth was not far: dad had said so; and dad knew.
Next day was Sunday. He determined to walk over the hill to Aldwoldston to see what he could find.
True, Madame at the Hotel had told him that the girl had not gone home; but did Madame know?
He started early, passed Moot Farm, where the turkey-cocks, stately and with spreading tails, played that they were peacocks, and disdained him for a vulgar fellow in spite of old acquaintance.
It was February, and the beeches in the coombe at the back of Ratton Hall had not yet begun to warm and colour with the rising sap. The feel of the turf beneath his feet, the glimpse of shrouded waters beyond the Seven Sisters, uplifted and inspired him as of old.
He could conquer; he could find.
Descending the long slope into Cuckmere, he crossed the road at the racing-stables, took the hill again, and marched along, his head in the sky, and a song on his lips, to greet that of the lark pouring down on him from the unbroken dimness of the heavens.
It was still early as he dropped down the bare bleak flank of Wind-hover, scrawled upon with gorse; and came over the cultivated foot-hills into the valley, bright with brooks and the narrow Ruther that winds like a silver slug down the green-way towards the sea.