“Itshallbedone。”saidWinterborne，nottoher，thoughhespokethewordsquiteloudly。Andasthedaywasnearlyended，headded，“Here，Marty，I’llsendupamantoplanttherestto-
morrow。I’veotherthingstothinkofjustnow。”
Shedidnotinquirewhatotherthings，forshehadseenhimwalkingwithGraceMelbury。Shelookedtowardsthewesternsky，whichwasnowaglowlikesomevastfounderywhereinnewworldswerebeingcast。Acrossitthebareboughofatreestretchedhorizontally，revealingeverytwigagainstthered，andshowingindarkprofileeverybeckandmovementofthreepheasantsthatweresettlingthemselvesdownonitinarowtoroost。
“Itwillbefineto-morrow。”saidMarty，observingthemwiththevermilionlightofthesuninthepupilsofhereyes，“fortheyarea-croupieddownnearlyattheendofthebough。Ifitweregoingtobestormythey’dsqueezeclosetothetrunk。Theweatherisalmostalltheyhavetothinkof，isn’tit，Mr。Winterborne？
andsotheymustbelighter-heartedthanwe。”