The feeling gave her a certain sense of exhilaration. From the depths of
her despair her easily influenced spirits sprang again to hope and
confidence. After all, nothing very dreadful had happened. She must
struggle not to give way to intemperate feelings. She must bear with
Polly! she must put up with Maggie. It was all very trying, of course,
but it was the English way. She walked along faster and faster, and now
her lips rose in a light song, and now again she ran, eager to get over
the ground. When she ran her light hair floated behind her, and she
looked less and less like a living creature.

Polly had slept for nearly two hours. She awoke to hear a voice singing,
not the sweet, touching, high notes which had seemed to fall from the
stars to comfort her, but a wild song:

"Oh, who will up and follow me?
Oh, who will with me ride?
Oh, who will up and follow me
To win a bonny bride?"

For a moment Polly's heart stood still; then she started forward with a
glad and joyful cry.

"It is Flower! Flower coming back again with little Pearl!" she said, in
a voice of rapture. "That is Flower's song and Flower's voice, and she
wouldn't sing so gayly if baby was not quite, quite well, and if she was
not bringing her home."

Polly rose, as well as she could, to a sitting posture, and shouted out
in return:

"Here I am, Flower. Come to me. Bring me baby at once."

Even Flower, who in many respects had nerves of iron, was startled by
this sudden apparition among the bracken. For a brief instant she
pressed her hand to her heart. Were Maggie's tales true? Were there
really queer and unnatural creatures to be found on the moor?

"Come here, Flower, here! I have sprained my ankle. What are you afraid
of?" shouted Polly again. Then Flower sprang to her side, knelt down by
her, and took her cold hand in hers. Flower's slight fingers were warm;
she was glowing all over with life and exercise.

"Where's baby?" said Polly, a sickly fear stealing over her again when
she saw that the queer girl was alone.

"Baby? She's in the hermit's hut with Maggie. Don't scold me, Polly. I'm
very sorry I got into a passion."

Polly pushed Flower's fingers a little away.

"I don't want to be angry," she said. "I've been asking God to keep me
from being angry. I did wrong myself, I did very wrong, only you did
worse; you did worse than I did, Flower."

"I don't see that at all. At any rate, I have said I am sorry. No one