"It's just as if she's dead," he said in a low voice, and at Helen's frightened gasp, he added--"I mean for me." "Take her," she said, and when he had obeyed she sat on her heels and stared at nothing. For her, a mist was in the room, but through it there loomed the horrid familiarity of Halkett's bed, his washstand and a row of boots. Why was she here? What had she done? She heard him asking gently, "Aren't you coming?" and she remembered. She had promised to marry George because Miriam had been lying on the floor, because, years ago, the woman lying alone in Pinderwell House had brought the Canipers to the moor where George lived and was brutal and was going to marry her. But it could not be true, for, in some golden past, before this ugliness fell between her and beauty, she had promised to marry Zebedee. She held her head to think. No, of course she had given him no promise. They had come together like birds, like bees to flowers-- "Aren't you coming?" Halkett asked again. She rose. Yes, here was her promised man. She had bought Miriam with a price. She stumbled after him down the stairs. In the warmth of the kitchen, by the light of a glowing fire and a single candle, Miriam's eyelids fluttered and lay back. "It's all right, darling," Helen said. "You're quite safe. You're with Helen, with Helen, dear." Behind Miriam's eyes, thoughts like butterflies with wet wings were struggling to be free. "Something happened. It was George. Has he gone away?" "He isn't going to hurt you. He wants to take you home." "Don't let him. We'll go together, Helen. Soon. Not yet. Take care of me. Don't leave me." She started up. "Helen! I didn't say I'd marry him. I wouldn't. Helen, I know I didn't!" "You didn't, you didn't. He knows. He frightened you because you teased him so. He just frightened you. He's here--not angry. Look!" He nodded at her clumsily. "You see?" "Yes. I'm glad. I'm sorry, George." "It doesn't matter," he said. He looked at Helen and she looked full at him and she knew, when he turned to Miriam, that he still watched over herself. She could recognize the tenderness and wonder in his eyes, but she could not understand how they had found a place there, ousting greed and anger for her sake, how his molten senses had taken an imprint of her to instruct his mind. "Can you come now?" she said. "Yes." Miriam stood up and laughed unsteadily. "How queer I feel! George--" "It's all right," he said. "I'll take you home." "But we're not afraid," Helen said. "There's nothing to be afraid of on the moor." All possibility of fear had gone: her dread had been for some uncertain thing that was to come, and now she knew the evil and found in it something almost as still as rest. In the passage, he separated her from Miriam. "I want to speak to you." "Yes. Be careful." "Tonight. In your garden. I'll wait there. Come to me. Promise that, too." "Oh, yes, yes," she said. "That, too."