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Phoebe Roseingrave was unnaturally swift and tireless. She could run, the villagers said, as fast as a hare, and they were often frightened to see how quickly she sped across the meadows and the marsh.

This afternoon, with smears of cherry preserve still on her lips and fingers she fled through the sunlight to the oasthouse were Dr Rowland lived. Once or twice she paused, completely forgetting her errand, and was distracted by the chasing of a mouse through the dry grasses or the sound of a skylark singing high above her head. But always there came back into her mind what she had to do, and when she arrived at the oasthouse, she was quite clear about her message.

‘Why, poor Phoebe,’ said Dr Rowland as he admitted her. ‘It is a long time since I have seen you. Now, what brought you here all through the heat?’

And then she again forgot what she had to say and began to gibber and grimace, so he thought that this uncommon visit was but a whim of her imbecility and gave her a pack of cards to play with and went upstairs to his laboratory.

Phoebe lay on the floor in the square patch of sunlight that fell through the high windows and played with the cards which were covered with strange devices in red, green and yellow. She looked like Miss Julia Roseingrave when she lay there, long, slim, and graceful, with a swathe of black hair falling over her shoulders and her straight featured, pale face.

Then she remembered why she had run away into the empty afternoon. She sprang up and called up the ladder staircase: ‘Dr Rowland! Dr Rowland!’ So that he opened the top door and looked down, wiping his fingers on the leathern apron that he used when he was making his experiments.

‘Oh, Dr Rowland,’ said Miss Phoebe, slyly, ‘Julia and Mother Cloke are making the foxglove tea for the strange lady who came this afternoon.’

‘And who is the strange lady, my poor child?’

Phoebe grinned, showing her pale gums and long teeth.

‘She is Sir William Notley’s wife, and Julia was going to marry him.’

‘Ali, yes, Julia is going to be married in two days’ time,’ frowned Dr Rowland. ‘It had gone out of my head, it does not matter very much. I suppose it means she will go away, I shall certainly miss her.’

‘But the wife has come, the wife has come!’ said Phoebe, dancing round in the patch of sunlight on the bright faces of the fallen cards.

‘You wild, mad thing,’ said Dr Rowland, ‘you are not telling the truth.’

‘The truth, the truth!’ shrieked Phoebe, leaping like poor Wat in the moonlight, and she opened the door and tore away across the sunny silence.

Dr Rowland stood thoughtfully at the top of the ladder stairway.

‘If such a thing should be true, would Julia act like that? And if she intended to act like that, should I wish to prevent it? What will it matter one way or another? We shall all be dust ere the least of the stars have twinkled twice,’ and he closed the door and went back to his experiments.