not a few scratches on her hands, and more that one rent in
her frock, was safely on the ground. It was all the work of a
moment; in another she had caught up her bundle, and was
darting over the lawn, across the twilit garden, as if the
whole sisterhood were in pursuit. Hardly knowing how she did
it, she clambered up the wall, through the big westeria,
reached the top, and slipping, sliding, found herself in the
pathway running round the outside, scratched, bruised, and
breathless, but without the walls, and so far free, at any
rate. Months afterwards she found some withered lilac-blossoms
lodged amongst the ribbons of her hat; how they recalled to
her the moment of that desperate rush and clamber, the faint,
dewy scent of the flowers, which she noticed even then, the
rustle and crash of the branches, which startled her as with
the sound of pursuing footsteps.

Once outside, she paused for a moment to take breath, and be
certain that no one was following her. All was quiet, and in
the stillness she could hear, as once before, the voices of
the nuns singing in the chapel. Picking up her bundle again,
she walked quickly away, along the little weed-grown path at
the back of the building, down the slope of the ploughed
field, up which she had come with Horace Graham two years and
a half ago. In thinking over her journey beforehand, she had
decided that it would be unwise to be walking along the
highroad whilst there was still any daylight left, and that
she would hide herself somewhere till it should be quite dark,
before setting out on her walk to Chaudfontaine. So, as soon
as she had reached the bottom of the unsheltered slope, she
looked about for a place of refuge. She found it in a clump of