Far off in the bottom the village waited for her.
It had always waited for her; but she was afraid of it now, afraid of
what it might have in store for her. It shared her fear as it crouched
there, like a beaten thing, with its huddled houses, naked and
blackened as if fire had passed over them.
And Essy Gale stood at the Vicarage gate and waited. She had her child
at her side. The two were looking for Gwenda.
"I thought mebbe something had 'appened t' yo," she said.
As if she had seen what had happened to her she hurried the child in
out of her sight.
Ten minutes to ten.
In the small dull room Gwenda waited for the hour of her deliverance.
She had taken up her sewing and her book.
The Vicar sat silent, waiting, he too, with his hands folded on his
lap.
And, loud through the quiet house, she heard the sound of crying and
Essy's voice scolding her little son, avenging on him the cruelty of
life.
On Greffington Edge, under the risen moon, the white thorn-trees
flowered in their glory.