"Now, in the name of Heaven," he cried, "what do you fear? You know that the dogs would allow no mortal to injure you or yours. Is it some murderous spectre of whom you stand in dread?" She regained a quiet pose, but seemed dazed by the unexpected fright. "A murderous spectre! What do you mean? Why do you use that phrase, Mr. Durgan?" "The words are pure nonsense. I used them to show you how baseless your fear appears. But I speak now in earnest to say that you ought not to come out at night alone if you are thus alarmed." "But I am perfectly safe with the dogs." "Just so. Then why were you afraid?" "I--I--in that shawl mistook you for----" She came to a final pause. He remembered now that, to shield himself from the drenched verdure, he had wrapped a camp blanket around him. "Yes, I certainly cut a queer figure--like an old wife; but, pardon my insistence, it is not good for any woman to be so terror-stricken as you were just now. That you are safe from danger with the dogs I truly think; but fear itself is injurious. If you are not safe from unruly fears, why roam where you invite them? It is always possible to meet a stranger." "Oh, I am not afraid of travelers." "Any shadow may assume a fantastic form." "But I am really not afraid of odd appearances." "Then why were you afraid of my blanket?" But her caution returned. With inconsequence and a touch of reproach she said: "You would rather have the mountain all to yourself, I believe." "I should be twice desolate. But that has nothing to do with my request that you should keep where you not only are, but feel, safe." "But if my fears are the result of my own imagination, why should any place be better?" "You are fencing with me now. If you could tell me what it is you fear----" She walked by his side as if thinking what she might answer him. "You used a phrase when you just spoke--what put it into your mind?--which perhaps expressed what I fear as literally as words can." "What do you mean by endorsing such foolish words?" "Your regard--your friendship, for us, is a very great comfort to us both--the best boon that Providence, if there be a Providence, could have sent us. Yet you have forced me to say what forfeits your regard." "That would be impossible. Our regard for one another is based solidly upon that touch of good principle which makes the whole world neighbors." "Ah! I am glad you say that. It is so comfortable to know your benevolence does not depend on our worth. Long ago, and I would have resented such an intimation from anyone; now it gives me the same sort of comfort that a good fire does or, say, a good pudding." She was regaining her spirits; but there was still a tense ring in her voice which meant intense sincerity. "Your regard for me has the same basis," said he; and added soon: "I am greatly in earnest in what I say; you ought not to put yourself in the path of fears you cannot master."