CHAPTER LIII.
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HE shepherd's wife went back to the mountains with her flock as the days of the spring lengthened into midsummer, and the warm winds came from the south and blew amongst the ruddy wheat and the browned hay-grasses.
Musa was once again utterly alone; alone with a grave the more; a little grave, small almost as if a bird were buried there, that she had made herself with laborious effort in the rocky floor and lined with rosemary as the sedge-thrush lines its nest.
This was all that was left to her of her love.
But her lover lived still, though her eyes could not behold him and his heart called
