she had followed out senhouse’s precepts as nearly to the letter as might be; neither staff nor scrip had she—no luggage at all, and very little money. in her exalted mood of resolve it had seemed a flouting of providence to palter with the ideal. to follow the patteran unerringly—a bird’s flight to the north—one could only fail by hesitation. time, and the pressure of that alone, had insisted on the railway. the road, no doubt, had been the letter of the law.

perhaps, too, a map was another compromise; but she found one in the station where, having made full use of its water, hair-brushes, and looking-glass, she dallied in the gay morning light—hovering tremulous on the brink of the unknown. it showed her wastwater—where he had told her he was always to be found; and it showed her kendal, too, dim leagues of mountain and moor apart. a loitering lampman entered into conversation with her. he was a langdaler, he told her; used to walk over once a week to see the old folks; and there was another call he had thither, it seems. there was a lady—his “young lady,” who took it hard if he missed his day.

he spoke profoundly of rossett gill and green tongue, of angle tarn and great end, and of the shelter under esk hause, which many a man had been thankful of before to-day. he advised the train to windermere, the coach to ambleside; thence, said he, you would get another coach to the langdales, and there the road stops and you must take to shanks’s mare. here he looked her up and down, not disapprovingly. “yon’s a rough road for you,” he considered, “and the track none so sure where the ground is soft. but you’ll do it yet,” said he; “and i’m thinking there’ll be looking for ye out of wastwater.” she blushed, and denied. “then he’s a fule,” said the lampman. his final warning was that she should inquire at the hotel before she started off to walk. she promised, and went into the town for a breakfast.

fold within fold, height above height, wood and rock and water, the hill-country opened to her and took her in. when she changed coaches at ambleside she was driven into the arms of the west wind, and could feel that every mile brought her nearer to her friend. before the end of this sunlit day she would be face to face with the one being in all this world who might know, if he would, every secret of her heart. as she thought this, she pondered it. every secret of her heart? might he then know all? yes—and she could tell herself so without a blush—even to that which she dared not confess to herself; even to that, he might know them all. she was in great spirits, and there were those in her company upon the coach who could have commerced with her, by way of exchange or barter. but though her eyes sparkled, and her parted lips were dewy, she had no looks for gallant youth. she faced the north-west, and never turned her face.

the horses drew up, and stretched their necks for water and the nose-bag; the passengers tumbled into the inn for luncheon. mary, faltering no more, struck out along the valley, up mickleden, for the sheep-fold and rossett gill. the coachman had told her that this road could not be mistook; her trouble would begin from the gill. “follow the beck,” he said, “to angle tarn—that on your left hand—and over the pass. make you then for the gap betwixt great end and hanging knott. esk hause we call it—a lonesome place. you shall not turn to right or left, if you mind me. due nor’-west lies your road, down and up again to the sprinkling tarn. maybe you’ll find a shepherd there. ’tis a place to want company in, they tell me. you should strike the styhead pass near by—if you’re in luck’s way.”

at starting, she felt that she was; springs in her heels, music in her heart. up the broad valley, over rocks and tufted fern, beside clear-running water she sped her way, until under the frowning steep of the pikes she began to climb. here she had needed both patience and breath; but being alone with all this mountain glory, she must frolic and spend herself. she took off boots and stockings and cooled her feet in water and moss; she crossed the beck, and re-crossed it, picked a knot of harebells for her belt, stooped to drink out of clear fountains, rested supine in deep heather, fanned herself with fronded fern, watched the clouds, the birds, bared her arms to the shoulder and plunged them after trout. she played with her prospect, and had never been so happy in her life. at five o’clock, biscuits and chocolate; and instead of being by sprinkling tarn she was not yet at esk hause.

it was here that she misgave herself, and for a moment knew the wild horror of the solitude. man is not made for the fells; pan haunts them, and the fear of him gripes the heart suddenly and turns man to stone. the sun, sloping, had hidden himself beyond great end. the world looked dun and sinister—estranged from her and her little joys and hopes. she stood on a trackless moorland encompassed by mighty hills. the black earth oozed black water where she trod; right over against her stood a mass of tumbled rock, spiked at the top as with knives. she was to go neither right nor left, she had been told; but which was right and which left by now, when she had roamed broadcast and at random a few times?

the knowledge that she was intensely alone braced her against her nerves. she beat back panic and considered what had best be done. here stood the shelter, a rude circle of stones breast-high. within was a seat half hidden in tall fern and foxgloves. until she knew her road more certainly, she would not leave that refuge from the night wind; but at the thought of night coming down and finding her here, alone with bat and crying bird, made her shiver. with the shelter, then, always in her eye, she explored the tableland where now she was on all sides. the walking was rough and boggy; she was near being mired more than once. fatigue settled down upon her as her spirits fell dead; despair rose up in their place and drove her to frantic efforts. she climbed heights which could give her no helping prospect—since all was alike to her, one intricate puzzle of darkening purple valleys and clouded peaks. and here the darkness came down like a fog and found her still. she huddled closely into her cloak and sat in the shelter, while fear, reproach, and doubts of which she would never have dreamed drove howling over the field—like the warring women of the rheinfels scenting havoc from afar off, who, or whose likes, we suppose, people the uplands in the night-time while men and women in the valleys sleep with their children about them.

at nine o’clock it was dusk, but not dark; she heard quite suddenly and with distinctness a child crying. “boohoo! boohoo!”—a merry note. there was no doubt that it was silver music to her. a child crying, and not far away; she left the shelter immediately, her heart clamative for this blessed solace.

it led her further than she had expected, directly away from the shelter to the edge of the moorland and down hill among rocks and boulders. she knew that she could not find her way back, knew that she had risked everything. stopping, with her heart beating fast, she listened for the sobbing wail; caught it again, more clearly than before, and went down after it. the descent became steep, and she very hot; but now the scent also was hot, and she in full cry. presently it struck upon her close at hand. “boohoo! boohoo!”

“don’t cry,” she called out clearly. “i’m coming—don’t cry.”

the wailing stopped, but not the snivelling, by whose sound she was led. she peeped round a great buttress of rock and saw a barefoot boy, his face in his arm, crying pitifully. she ran forward and knelt by him—“what is it? tell me what the matter is.” he showed neither surprise nor alarm—he was beyond that stage—but as she continued to coax him, put her arm round his neck and tried to draw him to her, he turned up presently his bedabbled face and gave her to understand that he was lost and hungry. mary laughed for joy. here was one in worse case than she. “but so am i, my dear!” she told him; “we’re lost together. it’s not half so bad when there are two of us, you know. and i’ve still got some food left. now dry your eyes and come and sit by me—and we’ll see what we shall see.”

he had a pinched, pale face, freckled, and a shock of sandy hair which tumbled about his eyes. so far as could be seen he had no shirt; but he was company, and more—he was poorer-hearted than herself. the mother in all women awoke in her; here was a child to be nursed.

he came to her without preface and sat by her side. she did not scruple to wipe his eyes and mouth with her handkerchief; she embraced him with her arms, snuggled him to her, and fed him with chocolate and biscuits. he seemed hungry, but more frightened than hungry, and more tired than either; for when he had finished what she first gave him he lay still within her arm for some time, with his head against her bosom. presently she found that he was simply asleep. happier than she had been for some hours, she let him lie as he was, until presently she also felt drowsy. then she laid him gently down in the brake, took off her hat, and lay beside the lad. the cloak covered them both; in two minutes she was asleep.

he awoke her in the small grey hours by stretching in his sleep, and then, by a sudden movement, flinging his arm over her and drawing himself close. she took him in her arms and held him fast. he was still deeply asleep. she could hear his regular breath, and feel it too. “poor dear,” she whispered, “sleep soundly while you can.” then she kissed him, and herself slept again.

a sense of the full light, of the warmth of the sun upon her, added to the drowsy comfort of the hours between sleep and waking. the boy was still fast, and she hardly conscious, when some shadow between her and the comfort in which she lay basking caused her to open her eyes. above her, looking down upon her, quietly amused, stood senhouse, holding his horse by the bridle. the long white sweater, the loose flannel trousers, bare feet, bare head—but he might have been an angel robed in light.

she sat up, blushing and misty-eyed. “it is you! you have come in my sleep. i have been two days looking for you.” the extraordinary comfort she had always felt in the man’s presence was upon her immediately. nothing to explain, nothing to extenuate, nothing to hide—what a priceless possession, such a friend!

“two days!” he said. “you might easily have been two months—or two years for that matter. but you have made a mighty good shot. my camp is not six hundred yards away. i’ll show you. but who’s your sleeping friend?”

she looked down at the lad, whose face was buried deep in bracken. she put her hand on his hair.

“i don’t know—some poor boy. i heard him crying last night when i had completely lost myself, and followed the sound. we comforted each other. he gave me a good night, anyhow. we kept each other warm. but i know no more of him than that. we’ll find out where he belongs to when he wakes. he wants food mostly, i think.” and then she laughed in his face—“and so do i, i believe.”

“of course you do,” said senhouse. “come along, and we’ll breakfast. i’ve just been out capturing the ghost. he had wandered far, the old beggar.”

mary jumped up. “what are we to do with the boy?”

“oh, he’ll sleep for an hour yet. we’ll fetch him when his grub’s ready. you must help me, you know, now you’re here.”

“of course,” she said, and walked by him, carrying her hat in her hand. “are you surprised to see me?” she must needs ask him.

senhouse raised his eyebrows. “no—i won’t say that. i should like to know why you came, though. no trouble, i hope?”

she looked at him, radiant. “no trouble now. i saw your trail—your patteran—in london.”

he started. “no, indeed, you did not. i haven’t been near london since i saw you there. i came straight here by train. but i’ll tell you a curious thing. three nights ago i dreamed of you.”

her eyes shone. “tell me your dream.” but he would not, and she could not make him.

past sprinkling tarn, and by the pass which hangs round about the great gable, he led her to a green plateau, high above the track, where she could see the tent. bingo stood up and barked a welcome short and sharp. then he came scrambling down the scree to meet her, knew her again immediately, and was profusely happy to see her. it was all like coming home for the holidays. she turned her glowing face to senhouse, and her brimming eyes.

“oh, why are you so good to me, you two?” she asked him, with bingo’s head and fore-quarters in her lap.

“why not?” said senhouse.