her feet on the grass, the timid shuffle of them on the stair, the pad of them in the room above his head. . . .
Through the open window he looked across the lawn, across the strawberry beds, across the stream, to the shore meadow where the young bull, son of Gretta van Lowe, had been turned out for exercise. He had had his fill of running, of snorting, of charging the wind, and now stood in statuesque unconcern staring insolently at the gentle ewes that grazed on the bank of the stream.
A great love for Grimstone surged over Derek. Grimstone and he were one. His own flesh that morning had become one with the soil. He could never leave it now. And there upstairs was Fawnie, little, weak, something to be cared for, protected, his own—after all. What a strange thing possession was! You thought you were the possessor when, in truth you were the thing possessed.
He rose, and slowly went upstairs.
Fawnie was lying on her bed, her loosened hair tumbled on the pillow. Her eyes were wet, and tears ran unheeded down her cheeks.
"Why are you crying?" asked Derek from the doorway.
"Not for that poor little baby—not for Buckskin," she sobbed, "but for you, darling, because you suffer, and—as a matter of fac', I don' know how to comfort you."
He came to her and sat down on the side of the bed.
She clutched his hand and pressed it to her breast.
"Oh, believe me, Durek, believe me! I'll be as true—as true as one of those strong trees out there—the one with the iron ring grown into its side." She drew their clasped hands to her lips and kissed her wedding ring. "Every word of what I told you is true," she said with passion.
He did not answer, but looked down soberly into her eyes.
From her appealing face his gaze moved to the window. On the bluff before the house he saw the figures of Grace
