let the wind whisk her over the field to the big gate； whence
she could watch him go。
He went up the hill and on towards the vicarage； the wind
roaring through the hedges； whilst he tried to shelter his bunch
of daffodils by his side。 He did not think of anything； only
knew that the wind was blowing。
Night was falling； the bare trees drummed and whistled。 The
vicar； he knew； would be in his study； the Polish woman in the
kitchen； a fortable room； with her child。 In the darkest of
twilight； he went through the gate and down the path where a few
daffodils stooped in the wind； and shattered crocuses made a
pale； colourless ravel。
There was a light streaming on to the bushes at the back from
the kitchen window。 He began to hesitate。 How could he do this？
Looking through the window； he saw her seated in the
rocking…chair with the child； already in its nightdress； sitting
on her knee。 The fair head with its wild； fierce hair was
drooping towards the fire…warmth； which reflected on the bright
cheeks and clear skin of the child； who seemed to be musing；
almost like a grown…up person。 The mother's face was dark and
still； and he saw； with a pang； that she was away back in the
life that had been。 The child's hair gleamed like spun glass；
her face was illuminated till it seemed like wax lit up from the
inside。 The wind boome