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She had come to a patch of long grass by the wayside, and she saw that in some places it was beaten down. There were tracks in it, as if something heavy had been dragged . . . or maybe had crawled that way. It was possible that her father had taken refuge in the scrub of bushes she could see just beyond the grass, and the possibility became more urgent as she followed the tracks. They led as far as the bushes and then vanished. She beat the bushes and lifted the branches, looking under them, and at first she saw nothing. Then she saw a leg in a corduroy trouser, and a mud-caked boot.

That must be her father. He had crept into the scrub for shelter, and was still asleep. Her indignation grew hotter.

"Dad!" she called. "Dad! Father! Come out—we mun be gitting on to Horsham."

But he did not answer. Perhaps he was not her father at all, but some strange tramp, exhausted, or—dead.

At the thought a sudden fear seized her and she nearly ran away. But she must make sure first. She lifted more branches and recognized unmistakably her father's worn old round-frock.