out
into the night and the wide air. Stars were bright in the sky. Cottage
lights twinkled here and there behind them in the village. They heard a
stream running away into the heart of the long solitude that lay beyond
them. Lily was very quiet. Her heart was full. Thoughts, strange and
beautiful, overflowed in her mind. She felt just then how much bigger
the human soul is than the human body, how much stronger the prisoner is
than the prison in which nevertheless it is dedicated to dwell for a
time. Her hand just touched the arm of Maurice as she looked across the
soft darkness of the moor. He, too, felt curiously happy and safe.
Taking off his cap he passed his hand over his hair.

"Lily," he said, "peace is here for me, in this place with you. My brain
has been playing me tricks because I have been so much alone, the devil
dwells in a man's loneliness. Listen to the silence of these moors. What
a music it is!"

The lights in the cottages were extinguished one by one, as bed claimed
their owners. But Maurice and Lily, sitting on the dry fringe of the
heather, remained out under the stars. Her hand lay in his and suddenly
she felt his quiver.

"What is it, Maurice?" she asked.

He got up and made a step forward.

"Lily," he said, "there is--there must be some one near us, a child lost
on the moor, or forgotten by its mother. I hear it crying close to us.
Say you hear it too. No, no, it is not the old sound. Don't think that.
It can't be. There's a natural explanation of this--I'll swear there is.
Come with me."

He pulled her hastily up and pressed forward some steps, stumbling among
the bushes. Then he stopped, listening.

"It is somewhere just here, by us," he said. "I must see. Wait a moment.
I'll strike a light."

He drew out his match-box and struck a match, protecting the tiny flame
between his hands. Then he bent down, searching the uneven ground at
their feet. The flame went out.

"I wish I had a lantern," he muttered.

"Maurice," Lily said, "let us go back to the inn."

"What! and leave this child out here in the night. I tell you there is a
child crying near us."

He spoke almost angrily.

"Let us go back, Maurice."

He stood for a moment as if uncertain.

"You think--" he began, then he stopped. She took his hand and led him
towards the village in silence. As they reached the inn door, the faint
light from the coffee-room encircled them. Maurice was white to the
lips. He looked at Lily