They feel dangerous. You don't know what
they'll bring."

"I thought you weren't going to make yourself miserable," he said. "Jump
up, and we'll take home the fatted calf."

She hesitated. "I'm not going straight home."

"Let me deliver the calf, then."

"No, please; it isn't heavy." She went to the horse's head and stroked
his nose. "I've never known his name. What is it?"

"Upon my word, I don't believe he has one. He's just the horse. That's
what we always called him."

"'The horse'! How dreary! It makes him not a person."

"But the one and only horse!"

"I don't suppose he minds very much," she murmured. "Good-night, horse.
Good-night, Zebedee. My basket, please. I'm very late."

"I wish you'd let me take you home. You oughtn't to go wandering over
the moor by night."

She laughed. "I've done it all my life. Do you remember," she went on
slowly, "what I once told you about the fires? Oh, years ago, when I
first saw you."

"The fires?" he said.

"Never mind if you've forgotten."

"I don't forget things," he said; "I'm remembering." His mind was urged
by his sense of her disappointment and by the sight of her face, which
the shadows saddened. The basket hung on her arm and her hands were
clasped together: she looked like a child and he could not believe in
her twenty years.

"It doesn't matter," she said softly.

"But I do remember. It's the spring fires."

"The Easter fires."

"Of course, of course, you told me--"

"I think they must be burning now. That's where I'm going--to look for
them."

"I wish I could come too."

"Do you? Do you? Oh!" She made a step towards him. "The others never
come. They laugh but I still go on. It's safer, isn't it? It can't do
any harm to pray. And now that Uncle Alfred's coming--"

"Is he a desperate character?"

She made a gesture with her clasped hands. "It's like opening a door."

"You mustn't be afraid of open doors," he said--"you, who live on the
moor." He grasped her shoulder in a friendly fashion. "You mustn't be
afraid of anything. Go and find your fires, and don't forget to pray for
me."

"Of course not. Good-night. Will you be coming again soon?"

"Old Halkett's pretty ill," was his reply and, climbing to his seat, he
waved his hat and bade the old horse move on.

The moor lay dark as a lake at Helen's feet and the rustling of the
heather might have been the sound of water fretted by the wind--deep,
black water whose depths no wind could st