To be lost on the moor in a dense fog! Too well he knew what that would imply. Fifty men, searching, might search in vain. A night alone on the moors for 'her!' The thought brought a stab of actual pain. Walking more slowly, he called at intervals in his strong base voice, listening with the hope that she might respond. No sound, no whisper, reached his ears. It was deadly still. As he went farther, the fog again grew dense, more dense than before, since the afternoon was advanced. The dank white curtain closed him in. He made up his mind to return most of the way, shouting at intervals. Then he would again traverse the path to Midfell, and would see whether she had reached home. If not, a party of men including himself should scour the hills. For this those who knew the country were necessary. To quit the track now, with nothing to guide him, would only mean losing himself also, being powerless to help her. Yet if indeed she were here, alone on these desolate moors!—the very idea was unendurable. He felt this keenly, as he paced the turf, raising his cry of "Phyllys! Are you there, Phyllys?" How familiar, how dear the name seemed! He could hardly believe that ten days earlier she had been nothing to him or he to her. Was he anything to her now? Perhaps not—yet. She had been ready to like him, as cousin and friend. But Phyllys and he would not be "friends" only. They would be much more or much less. On this deserted and fog-robed fell, he seemed to be growing intimate with her, as he might not in weeks of common acquaintance. He was shut out from all the world, except Phyllys; but she too was here. Though apart, they were together; both on the moor; she needing him; he bent on helping her. He did not now say that "perhaps" she was there. It had grown to be a certainty. Were their spirits in touch, though bodily they were separate? He was by no means an imaginative or sentimental man. But, looking at the white wall, he saw her face—not smiling or mischievous; full of distress; imploring his aid. He made a forward start, half distracted. She was on the moor. She "was" lost. And how was he to know where? "Phyllys! Phyllys!" again he shouted, with the full strength of his lungs. Something clammy touched his hand. "Wiggles!" with an immense revulsion of joy. Where Wiggles was, Phyllys could not be far. "Where is she, Wiggles? Phyllys, where are you?" No human voice made reply. Wiggles whined, jumping on him, licking his hand, taking hold of his trouser. "Where is she, Wiggles?" he asked, every nerve in him tense. There could no longer be any doubt. She would not have left Wiggles behind. That Wiggles should have left her seemed singular; but he might be a dog prone to wander. He might—this flashed up, as Wiggles again laid hold upon his trouser—have come for help. "You must take me to her," he said, addressing the dog as he might have addressed a child. He drew a cord from his pocket, and passed it through the collar. "Now—lead!"