Here was the turn now, and here the long, long hill. Bartlett and she had trodden it once together when they had come back from that famous outing to Shroton Fair. They had got out of the waggon which had given them a friendly lift, just at the bridge, and had walked home together in the moonlight. She had hung on to Bartlett’s arm, and he had talked courting-talk all the way, just as when they were lovers. The old woman smiled to herself as she tottered onwards. It had been moonlight then and it was moonlight now, and she was going to meet Bartlett. “He’ll wait, Bartlett ’ull wait,” she said to herself. “He’ll not disapp’int I.” But, dear to be sure, that was a very long hill, and Lizzie was quite exhausted when she reached the top. She paused, gasping, while she surveyed the prospect before her. There were the woods before her on her right, the fir-trees sending out spicy scents which might have refreshed her had she been less anxious to get on; on her left the fields sloped away behind the hedge. They were asleep, too, fields and hedge, like the houses in the town; nobody was awake but Lizzie and poor Bartlett, waiting yonder, in the empty house. But that dreary white road, how long it was? First a dip down and then a climb up—a long tedious climb, and the corner round which she must turn so far away that it was out of sight; and even when gained there was still more road, long and straight and weary, before she could reach the short cut which led across the fields to her own wood. While she considered the greatness of the distance and the lateness of the hour Lizzie became quite frightened, and wishing to make the most of the downward incline, she set off at a kind of hobbling run. Then, all of a sudden, she never quite knew how, something hit her in the face; her whole frame jarred through and through; stretching out her hand she groped about her blindly for she could not see, and felt grass and a tuft of weeds: it must have been the ground which had risen up to buffet her. But even while turning over this new idea in her mind she lost consciousness. * * * “Hullo, Mrs Sweetapple!” Lizzie opened her eyes and smiled vaguely; somebody had raised her head and was dusting her face with a cotton handkerchief: Lizzie sat upright, feeling still dizzy, but happy and hopeful. She had had dreams—curiously pleasant dreams—and was at first astonished at not finding herself in her bed; but presently remembered. Then a spasm of anguish crossed her face. The moon was set, the gray light of dawn shone on her companion’s face and showed forth the ghostly world about her. Would Bartlett still be there?