"If he's well enough, I'll see him to-morrow. It's been in my mind to tell him about myself before to-day."
"I wish you had."
"He shall hear it. I set great store by his sense. He might—— Can you get home from here? I'll come with you if you like."
"No."
"You've forgiven me?"
"I'll think and think. Be there anything to forgive?"
"I don't know. And yet I do. Yes—you think—then you'll find you've got to forgive me for ever loving you, Dinah."
"You're life—you're life to me," she said. "Don't say small things like that. I'm only being sorry for all you've had to suffer all these years and years. I'll go on being sorry for you a long time yet. Then I'll see if I'm angry with you after. I can only think of one thing at a time."
She tramped up the hill and he stood, until her footfall had ceased. Then he went his own way and had climbed to within half a mile of Buckland, when a strange thing happened. He heard the winding of a hunter's horn. Through the darkness, for all listening ears at Holne or Leusden, Buckland or the neighbour farms and hillsides to hear, came the melodious note. It rang out twice, clear and full; and kennelled hounds a mile distant caught it and bayed across the night—a farewell, good to the heart of Enoch Withycombe if he had heard them.