"Nor I. She's been so ripping to me always. Even when I was a big clumsy schoolboy, with nowhere to go to for the holidays, she'd have me out to Plessing, and make me feel that she cared about having me there. She wrote to me all the time I was in India--I don't think she ever missed a mail--and all the time I was in Flanders last year. Some day," said Johnnie, rather shyly, "I'd like to show you her letters to me. No one has ever seen them. But I've always felt that you knew what she really is--more than other people do." "Thank you," said Grace. John seemed satisfied with something in the tone of the brief reply, and they went on in silence till he raised the flickering lamp. "Wait a moment. There ought to be a fence here, and it may be barbed wire. Take care." Grace was thankful to stand still, her aching legs still trembling beneath her from the ascent. John held up the lamp and made a cautious examination. "There ought to be an opening--here we are." He waved the lamp in triumph; the light gave a final flicker and expired. There was a dead silence from both, Grace speechless from dismay and fatigue, and Trevellyan from his inability to express his feelings in the normal manner in the presence of Miss Jones. "Have you any matches?" she asked at last. "Yes. I'm sorrier than I can say, but I'm very much afraid that the wretched thing has given out. Why on earth the doctor can't get proper electric lamps for his rotten car--" John fumbled despairingly amongst his matches, made various unsuccessful attempts, and at last apologized again to Grace, and said that it never rained but it poured. They must go on in the dark. "Very well. Only let's avoid the barbed wire." "Miss Jones, I _can't_ tell you what I think of you. Any one else would be perfectly frantic." "But I'm never frantic," said Grace, rather regretfully. "I often wish I was like the people in books who feel things so desperately. Maggie Tulliver, for instance. It's so uninteresting always to be quite calm." "Always?" "Well," said Grace, "practically always." "It's an invaluable quality just at present, but perhaps one of these days--" "I'm so sorry, but I think my skirt has caught in the barbed wire." Trevellyan released her skirt in silence. "Now, then, if we get through the gate here, the next field takes us on to the road again, and with any luck they'll have got to Plessing and sent something back to pick us up." Trevellyan, who knew his ground and appeared able to see in the dark, pushed at the creaking wooden gate, and Grace passed through it, feeling her feet sink into an icy bog of mud and water. "I'm afraid I can't see much. You see, I don't know the way at all." "I know; it makes all the difference. Look here, will you let me take your hand? I know every inch of the way." Grace put out her small gloved hand and said very sedately: "Thank you; I think that will be the best way."