“Afraid it’s rather bumpy,” said Arthur. “Do you mind?” “I mind nothing,” she answered simply. He glanced at her. “You are not disliking it?” She drew a long breath. “I don’t believe I ever knew what life could be before to-day.” He said no more. The guiding of the horse took up all his attention. They came presently to a track crossing the one they were following. He reined in as if he had reached his destination. Frances looked about her. The place was lonely beyond description. Here and there vast boulders pushed through the short grass, surrounded by tufts of heather that seemed to be trying to hide their nakedness. They were closely surrounded by hills, and the gurgle of an invisible stream filled the air with music. “Have you ever been here before?” said Arthur. “Never,” she said. “Yes, you have,” he returned bluntly. She started a little, and looked about her more attentively. Was the place familiar? He pointed suddenly with his whip along the track they faced. “You and Roger!” he said. “Don’t you remember?” She uttered a gasp of surprise. “Why—yes! But was it here?” “It was round the curve of that hill,” he said. “Afterwards, you came on here alone, and lost your way, took the wrong turning. Remember?” “I wanted to get to Fordestown,” she said. “But I was tired. I fell asleep.” He nodded. “And then you wandered up to the Stones.” She felt herself colour. With an effort she answered him. “It wasn’t quite like that. I met—a friend, or rather—he found me here. We got lost in the fog. That was how it happened.” “Yes,” said Arthur. He turned the horse up the wild track to the left without further words, and they went on in silence at a walk. A great stillness brooded about their path. A certain awe had taken possession of Frances. The ruggedness of the place, its austerity, held her like a spell. The high hills shut them in, and the music of many streams was the only sound. “You are taking me to the Stones?” she said at length, and unconsciously her voice was sunk almost to a whisper. “Yes,” he said. They went on up the lonely track. She tried to picture her walk with Montague through the blinding fog. Here she had slipped into bog, there she had stumbled among stones. Then as now, the vague sounds of running water had filled the desolation as with eerie, chanting voices. The smell of bog-myrtle came to her suddenly, and in a moment very vividly the terror of that night was back upon her. The thud of the horse’s hoofs on the wet track fell with a fateful, remorseless beat. She experienced a swift, almost overwhelming desire to turn back. It must have communicated itself to the man beside her, for he checked the animal with a curt word and brought the swaying cart to a standstill. “Miss Thorold, what is it? Have I brought you too far?” The concern in his voice reassured her. She met his look with a smile. “No! I am quite all right. It is only my foolish imagination—playing tricks with me. Shall we go on?”