"Oh, yes, I can. I'm going to make it up with him. I must, or I shall never be able to walk about the moor again."
"I wish you didn't live here," Helen said.
"Well, so do I. But it's not for long." She was working vigorously, and, with her peculiar faculty for fitting her surroundings, she looked as though she had been begotten of sun and rain and soil. Helen took delight in her bright colour, strong hands and ready foot.
"I wonder," Helen said thoughtfully, "if Uncle Alfred would take you now."
"Do you want to save me from George's clutches?"
"Yes, I do."
Miriam threw back her head and laughed. "You funny little thing! You're rather sweet. George hasn't a clutch strong enough to hold me. You can be sure of that."
She was herself so certain that she waylaid him on the moor next day, but to her amazement he did not answer her smile of greeting and passed on without a word.
"George!" she called after him.
"Well?" He looked beyond her at the place where green moor met blue sky: he felt he had done with her, and Helen's trust had taken all the sweetness from revenge.