ick Upton, and taking the farms and
houses on their way.

"Let's take the short cut--you know--the footpath over Moor Clint,"
said Elsie, pointing with her finger to a long low heathery ridge
through which the grey stone peeped. A pale grey thing, like a piece
of twine, wimpled up it and ducked over the top.

"Very likely," I cried, "and miss anything that is on the road."

"We shan't miss anything," she said, giving me a look of disdain;
"don't you remember the leaves in the cart? Where do you suppose they
came from?"

I had not thought of that. Yes, of course, there was nothing of that
sort on the Bewick Upton road nearer than Sparhawk Wood, where the big
Moat Forest throws a spur across the Bewick road. On the left-hand
road it was quite different. There were trees nearly all the way,
right from the Bridge End of Breckonside. But then, as official
postman, Harry Foster had his route marked out for him, and there was
nothing to take him toward the left--indeed, nothing but farms and
trout streams all the way to the Cheviots.

So, like dogs on a live scent, Elsie and I stretched across the moor by
the Moor Clint footpath as fast as our legs would carry us. The rest
of the search parties from the village kept to the road, going slowly
and searching minutely. But I was sure that Elsie was right, and that
whatever there was to find would lie beyond the array of dark-green fir
trees which stood like an army across our path.

It was kind of quaky, too, I admit, going along, getting nearer and
nearer all the time. For, when you came to think about it, there might
be a murderer any where about there, waiting for you. But Elsie did
not seem to mind. Elsie always knew just what to do, and wasn't at all
backward about telling a fellow, either.

I forget if I have ever told you what Elsie Stennis was like. Well,
nothing very particular at that time--only a tallish slip of a girl,
who walked like a boy, a first-rate whistler, and a good jumper at a
ditch. She always had her hair tied behind her head with a blue
ribbon, and then falling all in a mess about her shoulders. It
wouldn't stop still, but blew out every way with the wind, and was such
a nuisance. I would have had it cut off, but Elsie wouldn't. It was
yellowy coloured.

In spite of this, Elsie was a first-rate companion, nearly as good as a
boy, and just no trouble at all. Indeed, I generally did what she
said, not because I didn't know as well,