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parson’s son, could hardly escape with honour. She did not expect miracles but a miracle was unnecessary, a little patting and probing would do the trick and a proposal would almost certainly follow, particularly if she prescribed the areas where the patting was done. And then, just as she was looking for a suitable briar to entrap her foot, the Valley mating gods took a hand and a low, choked cry issued from a gorse thicket within a few yards of the path. They both stopped, surprised, and a little alarmed to hear such a sound in such a place, and he said, seeking corroboration, ‘That was human! Somebody is hurt in there!’ and although the cry had sounded human common sense told her that it was far more likely to be the moan of an animal caught in a trap and she said as much. ‘Squire has forbidden the use of steel traps on the estate,’ he said. ‘I’ll push through and see!’ and he barged through the gorse that grew close against the summit of a large, flat-topped rock on the crest of the slope.
    She did not follow for the gorse was dense and she was wearing her Sunday stockings. She sensed, however, that a crisis in their relationship had arrived, or was on the point of arriving and was therefore partially prepared for his re-emergence within a matter of seconds with an expression of terror on his face. She had never seen so much horror in a man’s eyes, or a face more tense and blanched and cried, ‘What is it, Keith? What’s in there?’ and he gibbered, ‘It’s . . . it’s a woman ,a gggirl! She’s . . . she’s . . . there’s a bbbaby coming!’ and for a moment she thought he was going to faint. Then a second cry came from the base of the rock and another and another, each louder and more pitiful than the other, so that Rachel rushed past him and dived through the gorse to find that it screened a small, shallow cave, evidently the hideout of a tramp or gypsy, for there was a burned-out fire and a few trumpery utensils scattered about. Beyond the fire, close against the wall was a girl, her knees drawn up and her single garment, a faded dress, rucked up level with her breasts. Her matted hair tumbled as she heaved and when her mouth was not open in a yell her teeth were clamped over her lip.
    Rachel recognised her at once as Hazel Potter, the half-crazed postscript of the Potter tribe and a glance told her that Keith, unbelievably, was right and that the poor little wretch was indeed giving birth to a child, for the baby’s head was already showing and it seemed to Rachel, who had witnessed the birth of innumerable foals and calves, that labour was about half-way through and progressing rapidly before her eyes. She had inherited courage from her father and any amount of common sense from her mother, so that even before the shock had receded she knew what she must do and also what Keith must do if he could keep his nerve. She dived back through the bushes and seizing him by the shoulders shook him as though he had been a troublesome child.
    ‘Listen!’ she shouted, ‘listen, and then do exactly what I say! Are you listening? Are you?’ and when he nodded, his head wobbling on his long, thin neck, she went on, ‘It’s Hazel Potter and she is having a baby! I’ll have to stay and help but you must go for the lady doctor as fast as you can. Don’t go the shortest way but across the stream to Sam Potter’s cottage and send his wife here to help me—tell her to bring towels and a sheet and . . . and string and scissors, can you remember? Then take Sam’s pony, ride on to the Lodge and guide the lady doctor back here.’
    She was agreeably surprised to see that he pulled himself together at once and repeated her instructions like a recitation. Then he set off at a long, loping run, disappearing round the bend in the track while she ran back through the bushes and flung herself on her knees beside the girl, looking wildly around for something approximate to a bed and rejecting the