o to
bed. Helen, don't fuss. And let us have no more of this wandering about
at night."

They left the room like threatened children, and on the landing they
took each other's hands.

"Is she mad?" Miriam whispered. "Are we all mad? What's happening to us
all?"

"I think she was just--dazed. Come to bed. I'll help you to undress."

"Once before you did. That night it rained--"

"Yes. Don't talk."

"But if she goes out of her mind, will it be my fault? Because of not
finding us, and the house all dark? Will that be my fault, too?"

Helen was busy with strings and buttons. "How can we tell who does
things?"

"She was talking about Mother. I wish I had a real, comfortable mother
now. It was horrible, but I wanted to hear more. I did, Helen. Didn't
you?"

"No. I don't like seeing souls if there are spots on them. Shall I put
out the light?"

"Yes. Now the darkness is going round. It will whirl me to sleep. I want
to go away. Do you think Uncle Alfred--? I'm frightened of this house.
And there's George. I think I'd better go away in case he comes after me
again."

A whistle like the awakening chirrup of a bird sounded from the garden,
and Helen's voice quavered as she said, "We'll talk about it in the
morning."

Quietly she shut the door and went downstairs. She had a lighted candle
in one hand, and a great shadow moved beside her--went with her to the
drawing-room, and stayed there while she wrote a letter to the
accompaniment of George's persistent whistling. She hardly needed it,
and it stopped abruptly as she passed through the long window to the
garden.

Among the poplars she found him waiting and at once she was aware of
some change in him. His head was thrust forward from his shoulders, and
he searched greedily for her face.

"I thought you'd given me the slip," he muttered.

She frowned a little at his use of words, yet what had he to do with
her? She looked up at the bare branches and thought of Zebedee and the
masts of ships.

"This must be a secret," she said through stiffening lips. "Come further
from the house." She led him to the garden door and opened it. "Out
here," she whispered.

The moor was like a tired, simple man asleep, yet it still kept its
quality of water, buoyant, moving and impetuous, and she felt that it
had swung her here and there amid its waves for many hours, and now had
left her on a little shore, battered and bereft, but safe.

"I can't stay," she said softly.