Someone called her, faintly, whisperingly.
Going towards the fence, she saw a wan face and wide eyes among the leaves. The lines of a long, dark dress went off into the shadows among the trees.
"Deirdre," she cried.
The girl came towards her. Her dress was draggled and torn. There was a red line on her cheek where a broken branch had caught and scratched it.
"Where's Davey?" she asked.
"Deirdre, what has happened?" Mrs. Cameron recognised a tragic urgency in her face. "Come in, you're exhausted. You don't mean to say you've walked from the Wirree."
She took her hand and led her into the kitchen. The fire was sending long ruddy beams of light over the bricked floor, glimmering on the rows of polished metal covers on the walls, and the crockery on the wooden dresser at the far end of the room. It was very homely and peaceful, Mrs. Cameron's kitchen. She pushed Deirdre gently into the big arm-chair by the fire.
"Sit there, dearie, till I get you a hot drink," she said.
Deirdre sat very still, gazing before her.
"It's this marriage with McNab is too much for her," Mrs. Cameron thought.