“Where did you meet him?”
“At Calfhay Cross. I come from Middleton Abbey; I have been making there for the last week.”
“Haven’t they a mill of their own?”
“Yes, but it’s out of repair.”
“I think—I heard that Mrs. Charmond had gone there to stay?”
“Yes. I have seen her at the windows once or twice.”
Grace waited an interval before she went on: “Did Mr. Fitzpiers take the way to Middleton?”
“Yes...I met him on Darling.” As she did not reply, he added, with a gentler inflection, “You know why the mare was called that?”
“Oh yes—of course,” she answered, quickly.
They had risen so far over the crest of the hill that the whole west sky was revealed. Between the broken clouds they could see far into the recesses of heaven, the eye journeying on under a species of golden arcades, and past fiery obstructions, fancied cairns, logan-stones, stalactites and stalagmite of topaz. Deeper than this their gaze passed thin flakes of incandescence, till it plunged into a bottomless medium of soft green fire.