"There was a thing we used to do. We had bets about Dr. Mackenzie's ties, what colour they were; but we never won or lost, because we never saw them. His beard was so big. And once Miriam pretended there was a huge spider on the ceiling, but he wouldn't look up, though she screamed. He told her not to be a silly little girl. So we never saw them." "I'm not surprised," the young doctor said. "He didn't wear them. What was the use? He was a practical man." "Oh," Helen cried, "isn't that just like life! You bother and bother about something that doesn't exist and make yourself miserable for nothing. No, I won't do it." "Do you?" "It's a great fault of mine," she said. He went round the back of the cart and lighted the other lamp. "Now I'm going to drive you home. That basket's heavy." "I have been shopping," she explained. "Tomorrow a visitor is coming." "Your father?" he asked quickly. "No; he hasn't been again. He's ill, Notya says, and it's too cold for him here. Dr. Zebedee, aren't you glad to be back on the moor?" "Well, I don't see much of it, you know. My work is chiefly in the streets--but, yes, I think I'm glad." "We've been watching for you, Miriam and I. She'll be angry that I've seen you first. No; she's thinking too much about tomorrow. It's an uncle who's coming, a kind of uncle--Notya's brother. We haven't seen him before and Miriam's excited." "And you're not." "I don't like new things. They feel dangerous. You don't know what they'll bring." "I thought you weren't going to make yourself miserable," he said. "Jump up, and we'll take home the fatted calf." She hesitated. "I'm not going straight home." "Let me deliver the calf, then." "No, please; it isn't heavy." She went to the horse's head and stroked his nose. "I've never known his name. What is it?" "Upon my word, I don't believe he has one. He's just the horse. That's what we always called him." "'The horse'! How dreary! It makes him not a person." "But the one and only horse!" "I don't suppose he minds very much," she murmured. "Good-night, horse. Good-night, Zebedee. My basket, please. I'm very late." "I wish you'd let me take you home. You oughtn't to go wandering over the moor by night." She laughed. "I've done it all my life. Do you remember," she went on slowly, "what I once told you about the fires? Oh, years ago, when I first saw you." "The fires?" he said. "Never mind if you've forgotten." "I don't forget things," he said; "I'm remembering." His mind was urged by his sense of her disappointment and by the sight of her face, which the shadows saddened. The basket hung on her arm and her hands were clasped together: she looked like a child and he could not believe in her twenty years. "It doesn't matter," she said softly. "But I do remember. It's the spring fires." "The Easter fires." "Of course, of course, you told me--" "I think they must be burning now. That's where I'm going--to look for them." "I wish I could come too."