"No--I'm not staying here," McTaggart hastily explained--"just going in to see some friends. I shall want you to wait--perhaps some time..." He glanced up the road as he spoke and saw that a little public house stood at the end of the empty street. "You'd better go and have a drink. But keep an eye on my suit-case." He handed the smiling driver a shilling. "Right, sir--thank ye. I'll be 'ere." He took the coin, pocketed it, gazing up at the sky. "Turning my money," he explained. "A new moon, sir--it brings luck." "I hope so," said McTaggart. He felt oddly nervous now as he passed down the dusty path with its clipped hedge on either side. A green door ended it, with a gaping crack, through which he peered and he saw a sun dried little garden where a few nasturtiums still straggled in a bed bordered with cockle shells. He lifted the latch and walked in. A cottage with a French window, wide open on the scrap of lawn, was before him, rendered picturesque by the magic light of the moon. Over the porch the last white rose of September hung, already withered but triumphant witness to the fact that the little dwelling had earned its name. Someone was singing. The clear young voice reached McTaggart where he stood and a sudden rush of blood to his heart testified to its being Jill. How he loved her! The very sound of her voice brought his secret home to him and he stole nearer to the house, tip-toe across the grass. "My brown boy is hiding away, For he stole a horse, so they say. The county's men after him ride. My boy mocks them, safe by my side..." The lawless words of the old Folk Song brought a smile to his lips. The beautiful chords of the Hungarian composer rippled smoothly under Jill's touch and again her voice rang out, filled with the youthful pride of the verse: "My brown boy is mighty and strong. Nine armed sheriffs can't hold him long! But when my voice, so soft he hears His proud head droops, bowed down with tears..." Now he stood under the shadow of the wall. Through the open window he could see the girl, her clear profile, and the slim moving hands. He dared not yet break in upon her--he leaned back, holding his breath. "Then I whisper, softly and low 'Give me thy love, 'ere thou dost go.... Pretty am I, faithful am I Only wayward, wayward am I...!'" A note of defiance rang through the words, typical of her independent nature. It stirred in McTaggart an answering throb of youth. Here was no easy conquest before him. Sweet would be the mastery to hold her in his arms--this young rebel, tamed at last... "Jill!" he stepped forward out of the shadows, tall and eager, in the clear white light. He saw wonder and swift joy pass across her face as she wheeled round; then a curious look of repression. "Hullo, Peter!" she answered him coolly. "What a surprise!--Have you dropped from the moon?" CHAPTER XXX