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She shifted her autumn bunch, tucked her free hand between frock and skin to keep it as warm as might be, and, screwing up eyes and mouth against the drizzle that whipped her face, set off at a stumbling trot down her second hill-side in an afternoon.

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Now the same gust of rain that was disputing with Laura every inch of her downward path, buffeting her face, twisting invisible hands in her hair, and sopping her shoes till she slipped and slithered down the clay-lined runnels of the road, had already more glorious insults to its credit; for it had bespattered unconcernedly, as it soughed past him, the comfortable person as well as the immaculate bicycle of Mr. H. J. Cloud. Henry Justin, no less, who, on this particular October Saturday at half-past four of what should have been a fine afternoon, was a week short of his sixteenth birthday; discreetly placed alike in his form and his house, near enough to the heights to satisfy Mrs. Cloud and his own dignity, yet not near enough to cause him any responsible discomfort; pleased as usual with himself, and more or less tolerant of his world; cycling home from school, to spend the Sunday with his mother.