Under the spell of her hostess's kind face and voice Esther had told some of her story too--told more, really, than she could have believed possible considering that she had not spoken of the events of that afternoon, nor to what led to her appearance at Edless, as the spot was called where Mademoiselle lived. "May I come to see you again?" she asked impulsively, as she put up her face to kiss the gentle, fragile-looking French lady. "Will you, dear? I shall be so pleased if your cousin will permit you. It is a little desolate here, and _triste_ at times, for I cannot read or write much, or use my needle; my eyes are not strong." "Those bright, shining eyes not strong!" thought Esther with surprise. "Could I read to you sometimes, or write for you, or sew?" she asked eagerly. "I am sure Cousin Charlotte would be pleased for me to, and--and I should _love_ to. May I?" "If _la cousine_ does not object, dear child, I should be grateful indeed; but, remember, she does not know me, or anything of me, and you must not be angry if she does not permit you. It would be but natural." "Oh, I am sure she will," said Esther confidently, and out she stepped into the darkness with Anne. To the end of her life Esther will never forget that walk across the moor under the cold blue of the darkening sky--the long, mysterious-looking Stretches of darkness with here and there a big rock standing up grim and gaunt in the silence, the vastness in which they seemed but specks, the shrill, sweet voices of the birds calling to each other, and the busy, persistent voice of the river, added to the weirdness and loneliness of the experience. The only lifelike sounds were their own footsteps, and it was only here and there, when they got on to rough ground and off the turf, that these could be heard. Esther grew oppressed by the awe and silence. She longed for her companion to speak. She would have said something herself, only she did not know what to begin about, and it needed courage to break, with her small voice, that vast silence. At last though, a rabbit, or some other wild animal that loves the night-time and the silence, darted right across their path, making her start and scream. The shock past, she laughed a little with shame of her own weakness. The scream and the laugh broke the spell. "It was very silly of me, but it came so suddenly," she explained apologetically. "It did, m'amzelle. I expect you are not used to such places at night?" "No, not at night. We love the moor, though, by day, and know it well, and I am not really afraid of the wild things." "No, m'amzelle," politely. Silence followed again. Esther grew desperate. "I--I hope your wife will soon be better," she said sympathetically. "Thank you, m'amzelle. I hope so, too." "Is she very ill?" "Well, not--not dangerous, but she troubles. Our M'amzelle Lucille is not strong, she suffers so, and when Laura--my wife--is ill, M'amzelle does too much, she is so good."