rushes further on down over the hill to the town. Blast follows blast, over and over again the same game, wilder and more violent. The trees are sigh- ing and moaning. The storm gives no quarter. That which has not the strength to stand must fall.
Storm, the great destroyer and up-rooter, rages round me. But I know no fear. I laugh straight into its face ; you do not frighten me, do not reach me ; once you had your claws in me, but I escaped from you. In happy arrogance I bless the storm. It blows in the autumn, the happy time, when there will be still more quiet on Rough-Hill, the time when Rough-Hill will belong only to Greta and to me. To-night, when I left the miller's house, and she saw me to the door, she said : ' Look, now the sky is full of autumn. The birds of passage are flying south, and folk from the capital are leaving the quiet places. Are you not beginning to long for the big town ? '
' And if I went away,' I asked, ' would you miss me.'
Her eyes grew moist while they looked into mine, and she answered : ' I think it must be so terribly hard to say good-bye. Promise me, that if you go away, you will leave without saying farewell.'
' I shall not leave until you say farewell'
I hurried out into the coming storm, but when from the wood I turned and looked back she still stood in the doorway gazing after me.
