nged her
seat to face it. Surely eyes were peering through the window? She rose
and drew the curtains with a suddenness that made Jim growl.

"Be quiet, dog!" She stood and listened. The night held its breath, the
stored impressions of the old house took shape and drew close and,
though they did not speak, their silent pressure was full of urging,
ominous and discreet.

She folded her work and put out the light, told Jim to follow her up the
stairs, and trod them quietly. It was comforting to see the Pinderwells
on the landing, but she had no time for speech with them. She was
wondering if death had come and filled the house with this sense of
presences, but when she bent over Mildred Caniper's bed she found her
sleeping steadily.

On the landing, she let out a long breath. "Oh, Jane, I'm thankful."

She went into Miriam's room and saw that the bed was empty and the
window wide. She looked out, and there was a chair on the scullery roof
and, as she leant, trembling, against the sill, she heard the note of
the hall clock striking eleven. That was a late hour for the people of
the moor, and she must hasten. She was sure that the house had warned
her, and, gathering her wits, she posted Jim at the bottom of the stairs
and ran out, calling as she ran. She had no answer. The lights of Brent
Farm were all out and she went in a dark, immobile world. There was no
wind to stir the branches of the thorn-bushes, the heather did not move
unless she pressed it, and her voice floated to the sky where there were
no stars. Then the heavier shade of the larches closed on her, and when
she left them and fronted Halkett's Farm, there was one square of light,
high up, at the further end, to splash a drop of gold into the hollow.

Towards that light Helen moved as through thick black water. She carried
her slippers in her hand and felt her feet moulded to the cobbles as she
crossed the yard and stood below the open window. She listened there,
and for a little while she thought her fears were foolish: she heard no
more than slight human stirrings and the sound of liquid falling into a
glass. Then there came Miriam's voice, loud and high, cutting the
stillness.

"I'll never promise!"

There was another silence that held hours in its black hands.

"No? Well, I don't know that I care. But you're not going home. When the
morning comes perhaps it'll be you begging me for a promise! Think it
over. No hurry. There's all night." George was