"How did yo' get out?" The words came anxiously and with difficulty, like the words of a deaf mute that had been taught to speak mechanically. Nancy smiled weakly and looked silently at the speaker. "Been tryin' to find hit?" the strained voice went on. "Yo' better lie still, Zalie--yo' larned enough, chile!" And then, because the rigid girl did not speak, the old woman drew nearer. Nancy, believing herself in the presence of a harmlessly insane creature, rallied her courage and sought to soothe, not excite, the woman. "I'm lost," she faltered. "I am sorry to have disturbed you; I am going now." She half turned, keeping her eyes on her companion. "Come--set a bit," pleaded the crackling voice; "come warm yo'self before I tuck yo' up again. How cold yo' little hands are! Po' little Zalie, jes' naturally--tryin' to find hit." There are limits of fear beyond which, for self-preservation, a kind of calm strength lies that suggests ways of safety. Nancy did not run or cry out, she did not withdraw her icy hands from the brown, claw-like fingers that held them; she even smiled a faint, ghastly smile that reassured the old woman. Her eyes softened; her voice almost crooned. "Us-all is safe--no one comes nigh--it's comfortin' ter tech yo', Zalie, an' hit is well placed. Through all the years I done wanted to tell yo'; I've said it by yo' grave many's the time, chile----" Becky waited a moment. She looked cautiously about the sun-lighted place and peered into the gloom of the forest-edge, then she looked again at Nancy, while her thin hand pointed to the mound under the tree across the bit of open. Nancy shuddered. "What is--that?" she gasped. "Yo' little grave, Zalie--yo' little bed. I 'tend it loving and proper; I take a look-in onct so often--but yo' is cute, like yo' was when yo' stole out in the moonshine to larn. You done got out yo' grave when I wasn't watching. Come, now, let me put yo' back!" The old woman turned, and in that instant Nancy fled like a spirit. Noiselessly, swiftly she disappeared. She heard the crackling voice behind her: "Jes' creep back by yourself, eh, Zalie?" And then came the sound of metal patting down the loose earth on the mound by the solemn trees. Nancy could never tell what occurred on her descent from Thunder Peak. When she reached The Gap, she found that her dogs had strayed from her: they had either dropped behind or run before. She was not exhausted. She felt strong and calm. The adventure was assuming a thrilling proportion now she was at a safe distance. But she had no intention of telling Doris. Oddly enough, she felt the need of keeping it secret. She shivered as she recalled the touch of the claw-fingers and the sound of the dry, hard voice. She had a growing sense of uncleanness, now that the shock was wearing off. It almost seemed that a poison had been left upon her that was eating its way into depths of her being. She was afraid that someone would know; she trembled when old Jed remarked: