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The wagon joggled on its way, and floating back, above the rumble of the wheels, there came presently the words of a hymn, at first clear and loud, and then growing fainter and thinner as the distance widened. Often Dorinda had sung the verses in Sunday School. The hymn was a favourite one of her mother's, and the girl hummed it now under her breath:

"Res-cue the per-ish-ing, care for the dy-ing,

Snatch them in pity from sin and the grave;

Weep o'er the err-ing one, lift up the fall-en,

Tell them of Je-sus, the migh-ty to save.

Res-cue the per-ish-ing, care for the dy-ing,

Je-sus is mer-ci-ful, Je-sus will save."

No, religion had not satisfied.

She was still humming when she reached the fork of the road. Then, glancing at the red gate of Five Oaks, she saw that Jason Greylock stood there, with his hand on the bar.

"I'd just got down to open the gate, when I looked up the road and saw you coming," he said. "I knew there wasn't another woman about who was wearing an orange shawl, and if there were, I'd wait for her just out of curiosity."