a collapse. Macheson dragged him into
the shelter and poured brandy between his teeth. He revived a little and
tried to rise.

"I must go on," he cried. "I dare not stay here."

The terror in his face was unmistakable. Macheson looked at him gravely.

"You had better stay where you are till morning," he said. "You are not
in a fit state to travel."

The man had raised himself upon one arm. He looked wildly about him.

"Where am I?" he demanded. "What is this place?"

"It is a gamekeeper's shelter," Macheson answered, "which I am making
use of for a few days. You are welcome to stay here until the morning."

"I must go on," the man moaned. "I am afraid."

Almost as he uttered the words he fell back, and went off immediately
into an uneasy doze. Macheson threw his remaining rug over the prostrate
figure, and, lighting his pipe, strolled out into the spinney. The man's
coming filled him with a vague sense of trouble. He seemed so utterly
out of keeping with the place, he represented an alien and undesirable
note--a note almost of tragedy. All the time in his broken sleep he was
muttering to himself. Once or twice he cried out in terror, once
especially--Macheson turned round to find him sitting up on the rug, his
brown eyes full of wild fear, and the perspiration running down his
face. A stream of broken words flowed from his lips. Macheson thrust him
back on the rug.

"Go to sleep," he said. "There is nothing to be afraid of."

After that the man slept more soundly. Macheson himself dozed for an
hour until he was awakened by the calling of the birds. Directly he
opened his eyes he knew that something had happened to him. It was not
only the music of the birds--there was a strange new music stirring in
his heart. The pearly light in the eastern sky had never seemed so
beautiful; never, surely, had the sunlight streamed down upon so perfect
a corner of the earth. And then, with a quick rush of blood to his
cheeks, he remembered what it was that had so changed the world. He
lived again through that bewildering moment, again he felt the delicious
warmth of her presence, the touch of her hair as it had brushed his
cheek, the soft passionate pressure of her lips against his. It was
like an episode from a fairy story, there was something so delicate,
so altogether fanciful in that flying visit. Something, too, so
unbelievable when he thought of her as the mistress of Thorpe, the
languid, insolent woman of the world w