"You're tired," he said again.
"Drive quickly, won't you?"
He whipped up the horse, and the wind roared behind them; they passed men and women staggering against it.
"Will there be snow?" she asked him.
He bent his ear to her, and again she shouted, "Will there be snow?"
"Feels—rather like it," he boomed back. "I never knew such a year. And they'd begun burning the heather!"
"Had they? Did you say burning heather? Then the fires will be put out. George, they'll be put out!"
He nodded, thinking this a small thing to shout about, in such a wind.
She had forgotten about the fires, but now she looked at the grey sky and hoped the snow would come. She imagined the first flake hissing on the fire, and more flakes, and more and more, until there was no smoke to veil the god, only a thick wet blanket for his burial. She had loved his moor, yet he had forsaken her; she had been afraid to hope, she had gone humbly and she had prayed, but now she need pay him no more homage, for she had nothing more to fear, and she whispered to the snow to hurry and avenge her.
When they were nearly home, George spoke again. "Are you very cold?"