"When you told us yourself that they were quite safe!" protested Matthew Henry. "And you said you would lead us over and back without any danger at all." "The fact is," said Vashti, quietly, "Annet feels herself responsible for you, and thinks that very likely I am a witch." The child faced her bravely, biting her lip upon the inward struggle. "You are not a witch," she said. "Your eyes are too good. And, besides, there are people in Brefar who will take care of us if we miss our way back." Vashti smiled, and again half sadly, for out of her own past this child confronted her. "That is brave, Annet; brave enough for the moment, though by and by we shall have to be braver. See how the sands shine below us! Shall we race for them and see who wins?" She took Matthew Henry's small, unresisting hand, and the four pelted down the slope. Something in Vashti's eyes--it could not have been in the words of her last answer, for they were mysterious enough--had apparently reassured Annet, who cast away care and called back in triumph as she won the race down to the golden sands. They were damp yet in patches, and these patches shone like metal reflecting the greenish-blue spaces that showed between the clouds in the heart of the gathering sunset. But along the fairway the sand lay firm to the tread, yet soft to the look as a stretch of amber-coloured velvet laid for their feet. Beyond rose Brefar, with its lower cliffs in twilight, its rounded upper slopes one shining green. Vashti had kilted her gown higher and helped the two girls to pin up their short skirts. All had taken off their shoes and stockings, for here and there a shallow channel must be waded.