At the next turn in the road she saw what she wanted. Up to the left, beyond a hilly field, a fringe of trees ran along a crest of high ground, and they were like the trees on the way to the Upper Pond at Duntarvie. At once Joanna left the road, squeezed through an unlatched gate, and with her feet sinking at each step deeper in sopping cattle-tracks, she made for her wooded summit.

When she reached the trees she rejoiced to find that they were mostly beeches. Their trunks, wrinkled and sweating, were stained in dark patches with the rain, and the floor of dead foliage glowed purple and sodden. As the girl wound her arms round one of the strong, lovely trees, pressing her cheek against its wet hide, a thrush flew out from the undergrowth with a disturbed chuckling cry.

Now was the time to think things out clearly and bravely – to find out what had happened, and to face it. But she noticed a leaf that fluttered captive, pierced by a sharp twig, and first she must set it free. Next a blackbird distracted her attention. He sat grooming himself for some minutes, then flew off with a spatter of raindrops.

So instead of thinking, Joanna sat on the driest log she could find, and slipped moment by moment deeper into the familiar softness of dreams. Soon, very soon, the false image Bob had shattered pieced itself together again, and she saw herself again in the shape of her vanity. Was not this her supreme opportunity? Could she not prove to Bob what it was that he had cast aside? Yes, she would go on loving him in spite of himself – loving him and waiting. She had a vision of his returning, penitent and impassioned after many years, to find her true, unreproachful, angelically forgiving. He would return of his own free will, after long pining in vain for a word, a sign from her. Glowing, she imagined the moment when he would rush across continents to fling himself at her feet (the intervening years having flashed by like minutes).

But there ran as usual on the heels of Joanna’s fantasy the necessity for concrete action. Bob was leaving the day after to-morrow. Her first notion had been neither to see him nor to answer any letter he might write, but to wait silently through the years. But suppose he neither came nor wrote? Then he would never know of her heroic decision – a thing not to be contemplated. No, she must see him that night before she slept. But how? If she called at the Boyd’s house she was unlikely to see him alone.

This small but practical difficulty, with its demand on resource, was refreshing; and even before her plan was complete, hope danced in Joanna’s veins once more. Perhaps after all she would not have to wait for years! Voluptuously she saw herself begging for Bob’s forgiveness. She wallowed beforehand in their mutual abasement which was to end with fresh avowals and herself enthroned.