Chapter 1 - Page 2

She went on her way across the fields, sometimes above the fog,
sometimes below it, not much perplexed by its presence except when
the track was so indefinite that it ceased to be a guide to the next
stile. The dampness was such that innumerable earthworms lay in
couples across the path till, startled even by her light tread, they
withdrew suddenly into their holes. She kept clear of all trees.
Why was that? There was no danger of lightning on such a morning as
this. But though the roads were dry the fog had gathered in the
boughs, causing them to set up such a dripping as would go clean
through the protecting handkerchief like bullets, and spoil the
ribbons beneath. The beech and ash were particularly shunned, for
they dripped more maliciously than any. It was an instance of
woman's keen appreciativeness of nature's moods and peculiarities: a
man crossing those fields might hardly have perceived that the trees
dripped at all.

In less than an hour she had traversed a distance of four miles, and
arrived at a latticed cottage in a secluded spot. An elderly woman,
scarce awake, answered her knocking. Margery delivered up the
butter, and said, 'How is granny this morning? I can't stay to go up
to her, but tell her I have returned what we owed her.'

Her grandmother was no worse than usual: and receiving back the
empty basket the girl proceeded to carry out some intention which had
not been included in her orders. Instead of returning to the light
labours of skimming-time, she hastened on, her direction being
towards a little neighbouring town. Before, however, Margery had
proceeded far, she met the postman, laden to the neck with letter-
bags, of which he had not yet deposited one.

'Are the shops open yet, Samuel?' she said.

'O no,' replied that stooping pedestrian, not waiting to stand
upright. 'They won't be open yet this hour, except the saddler and
ironmonger and little tacker-haired machine-man for the farm folk.
They downs their shutters at half-past six, then the baker's at half-
past seven, then the draper's at eight.'

'O, the draper's at eight.' It was plain that Margery had wanted the
draper's.

The postman turned up a side-path, and the young girl, as though
deciding within herself that if she could not go shopping at once she
might as well get back for the skimming, retraced her steps.

The public road home from this point was easy but devious. By far
the nearest way was by getting over a fence, and crossing the private
grounds of a picturesque old country-house, whose chimneys were just
visible through the trees. As the house had been shut up for many
months, the girl decided to take the straight cut. She pushed her
way through the laurel bushes,