"And so you are really going!" said Dorothy, the fat cook, as she put the lanthorn into my hand: "And you, you idle, good for nought men, will let her go alone! I would go myself, but I should hinder more than help you!" "I'm going with Mrs. Merton!" said Jacky, the little knife-boy, starting up from his corner, and buttoning up his doublet, while his pale face and staring eyes showed his fears were only less strong than his sense of duty. "I'm only a lad, but I am somebody, and she shan't go alone—so!" "Good boy!" said Dorothy, as she tied her own kerchief over his ears to keep his cap on. "Thou shalt have a fine plum bun, I promise thee! There, go along, and God bless you both!" As we went out into the night, the wind caught us, and we had much ado to keep our feet. It came not steadily, but in heavy gusts, laden with sharp, stinging rain, and roared fearfully in the great trees. It was not so very dark, for there was a moon, which shone out now and then through the flying clouds, but a wilder night sure no two young things were ever abroad in. I walked on as fast as I could, and Jacky trudged manfully by my side, not even blenching when we passed into the Abbey church-yard, which we must needs cross, as the shortest way to Corby-End. As we were in the midst thereof, the moon shone out suddenly, and an owl—I suppose it was an owl—gave an unearthly screech. "Save us!" cried Jacky, pressing close to my side. "What's that?" "Only an owl," said I, valorously. "Never mind him!" But I did not feel as brave as my words, by any means. However, we crossed the church-yard safely enough, and descended into the ravine. Here it was very dark. The brook, already swollen with the rain, narrowed the path, so that we had to go one by one. There were strange sounds in the trees, and the passing gleams of the lanthorn made strange shapes on the rocks and bushes. I grew very impatient to reach the end, for, aside from all other fears, I knew the brook, which hath its rise in the high moon, sometimes swelled very suddenly, and made the track quite impassable. But the more haste, the worse speed. In my hurry, I stumbled and fell, putting out the light. Jacky burst out crying: "Oh, mistress, what shall we do now?" "Push on as fast as we can," said I, affecting a courage I by no means felt. "Take hold of my gown, and make what haste you are able." Even as I spoke, something seemed to brush past me, so near to my face that I felt it, and again we heard the same wild scream which had greeted us in the church-yard. Stumbling and tripping, however, we hurried on, and at last came out at the little gate I have mentioned before in these memoirs. We were still in the thick woods, but then the path was plain, and at last—oh, welcome sight!—we saw the lights in the windows of Corby-End!