"Since you knew me, John. You are so slow to mend that weak ending of the past tense. 'Tis a part of Devon speech--a thing in their blood--but not in yours." "I wish I knew all that was in my blood," he answered. "You will some day. Light will come. Sometimes I think old Lovey stole you, as gipsies steal little children. 'Tis monstrous to suppose that you are kin of hers." "Not so; her daughter was my dear good mother without a doubt." "'Tis strange how a man's heart warms to the very name of his mother, though he has never known her," said Grace. "Mine does, but I can only remember a white face and great frightened eyes that belonged to her. And when I ask my granddam for my father, she laughs--that laugh like tin beating on tin--and tells me to look in the river and I'll see him." "He was a very handsome man then. You've got about the most beautiful ears I ever saw on anybody." She spoke in a pensive and a critical tone with her eyes lifted to the hills, as though she spoke to them. "Good Lord, Miss Grace. Have I?" And so they talked and daily drifted nearer danger. A conversation of moment happened between them concerning Lovey Lee. John ransacked his memory for Grace's benefit and told her of early recollections, of his mother's funeral, of his arrival with Mrs. Lee at Siward's Cross when a child, and of his first labours upon the Moor. "I had to collect the lichen of which they make dyes," he said; "then I went wool-gathering, and grew very clever at setting briars in the sheep-tracks. Later I learned to plait rexens, or rushes as I should call 'em; then a man taught me how to ride. And as I grew and got sense, my grandmother became a greater wonder and mystery to me. She lived two lives, and of one I knew nothing. Oftentimes I found that she went abroad by night. Lying in my straw near the cattle, with their sweet breath coming to me, I'd wake and see light in the slits of the boards overhead where Granny slept. Then she would dout the flame--put it out, I mean--and the boards would creak and she'd come down the ladder and go out into the night. 'Twas moonlight she always chose, and once, when I was a bit of a lad, up home twelve years old, I reckoned I'd follow after and see what 'twas that took her off so secret when all things slept. But 'twas a poor thought for me. I followed 'pon a summer night in staring moonlight; and half a mile from Fox Tor, under which she went, my foot slipped where I was sneaking along a hundred yards behind her and I fell into a bog. She heard me splash out of it, and afore I could crouch down and hide, her cat's eyes had marked me and she turned and catched me, breathless an' soaking wet to the waist." "Alack, John! And what did she do?" asked the girl, reining up her horse to hear his answer.