It would be such an escape! She would be in a new world, free to see with her own eyes, to hear with her own ears, to form her own ideas, to observe, to learn, to feel, without home trammels. She would be no longer in a stiff groove, where everybody was expected to think the same as everybody else, under penalty of condemnation. How dense the fog was! Absorbed in anticipations, she had not noted surroundings, but had followed the track in a mechanical fashion. Now she realised that it was time to have reached the brow of the fell. Wiggles drew her attention. He was close to heel, not running about as was his wont. When she looked, he sat down, as if unwilling to go farther. "Why, Wiggles, are you tired?" She went on, and he followed, then again sat down, with a whine. Phyllys knew that in keeping to the track she was all right, fog or no fog. She had but to go on. But a doubt assailed her. This "was" the track, of course—this shadowy line. She bent to look more closely, and stood up, grave in face. Not the right path. It was a mere sheep-track, probably leading to the top of the fell. In sheer absence of mind she had quitted the path to Midfell—perhaps at one of the rocky breaks—and had turned along this instead. Vexed at her carelessness, she hurriedly retraced her steps, following the feeble little line. Soon she was brought to a standstill; for it died out, and she searched in vain for a continuation. The ground here was stony, and doubtless a continuation did exist; but she could not find it. Phyllys kept her head. She stood still, striving to grasp her situation. No easy matter this, to the most experienced man, in such a fog, with all landmarks blotted out. She did not understand fully the risks involved. Had she felt more afraid, she might have allowed Wiggles to act as her guide; but she was naturally confident, and the idea did not so much as occur to her. Wiggles, satisfied that she no longer aimed for the summit, awaited her pleasure. "All right," she said aloud, having made up her mind whereabouts she stood. She pictured the way that she had—must have—come. She placed the hills mentally, localised Midfell, and decided on her direction. Then she started briskly, and Wiggles followed—reluctantly still, as if not happy. No sign of the vanished track appeared, but she went on in good spirits, convinced that she was nearing the ridge behind Midfell, expecting each minute to find the path. According to her reasoning, this was a certainty. If the top of the fell lay "there," and the village of Midfell "there," then the track along the hillside "must" cut across somewhere in front. She failed to gauge the momentous character of that word "if."