ed a wan little smile.

"I am tired, and hungry, too. Have you enough for us both?"

"Lots!" said Maynard. To himself he added: "And what's more, my child,
you'll have a little fainting affair in a few minutes, if you don't have
a feed."

"Come and rest for a minute," he continued aloud.

He spoke with pleasant, impersonal kindliness, and as he turned to his
satchel she slipped out of the saddle and came towards him, leading her
horse.

"Drink that," he said, holding out the cup of his flask. She drank with
a wry little face, and coughed. "I put a little whisky in it," he
explained. "You needed it."

She thanked him and sat down with the bridle linked over her arm. The
colour crept back into her cheeks. Maynard produced a packet of
sandwiches and a pasty.

"I've been mooning about the moor all the afternoon and lost myself
twice," she explained between frank mouthfuls. "I'm hopelessly late for
dinner, and I've still got miles to go."

"Do you know the way now?" he asked.

"Oh, yes! It won't take me long. My family are sensible, too, and don't
fuss." She looked at him, her long-lashed eyes a little serious. "But
you--how are you going to get home? It's getting late to be out on the
moor afoot."

Maynard laughed.

"Oh, I'm all right, thanks!" He sniffed the warm September night. "I
think I shall sleep here, as a matter of fact. I'm a gipsy by instinct--

"'Give to me the life I love,
Let the lave go by me,
Give the jolly Heaven above----'"

He broke off, arrested by her unsmiling eyes. She was silent a moment.

"People don't as a rule sleep out--about here." The words came jerkily,
as if she were forcing a natural tone into her voice.

"No?" He was accustomed to being questioned on his unconventional mode
of life, and was prepared for the usual expostulations. She looked
abruptly towards him.

"Are you superstitious?"

He laughed and shook his head.

"I don't think so. But what has that got to do with it?"

She hesitated, flushing a little.

"There is a legend--people about here say that the moor here is haunted.
There is a Thing that hunts people to death!"

He laughed outright, wondering how old she was. Seventeen or eighteen,
perhaps. She had said her people "didn't fuss." That meant she was left
to herself to pick up all these old wives' tales.

"Really! Has anyone been caught?"

She nodded, unsmiling.

"Yes; old George Toms. He was one of Dad's tenants, a big purple-faced