"Lily," he said, "peace is here for me, in this place with you. My brain has been playing me tricks because I have been so much alone, the devil dwells in a man's loneliness. Listen to the silence of these moors. What a music it is!" The lights in the cottages were extinguished one by one, as bed claimed their owners. But Maurice and Lily, sitting on the dry fringe of the heather, remained out under the stars. Her hand lay in his and suddenly she felt his quiver. "What is it, Maurice?" she asked. He got up and made a step forward. "Lily," he said, "there is--there must be some one near us, a child lost on the moor, or forgotten by its mother. I hear it crying close to us. Say you hear it too. No, no, it is not the old sound. Don't think that. It can't be. There's a natural explanation of this--I'll swear there is. Come with me." He pulled her hastily up and pressed forward some steps, stumbling among the bushes. Then he stopped, listening. "It is somewhere just here, by us," he said. "I must see. Wait a moment. I'll strike a light." He drew out his match-box and struck a match, protecting the tiny flame between his hands. Then he bent down, searching the uneven ground at their feet. The flame went out. "I wish I had a lantern," he muttered. "Maurice," Lily said, "let us go back to the inn." "What! and leave this child out here in the night. I tell you there is a child crying near us." He spoke almost angrily. "Let us go back, Maurice." He stood for a moment as if uncertain. "You think--" he began, then he stopped. She took his hand and led him towards the village in silence. As they reached the inn door, the faint light from the coffee-room encircled them. Maurice was white to the lips. He looked at Lily without speaking, and he was trembling. "Wasn't there anything?" he whispered. "Is it here too? Can't you keep it away?" Lily said nothing. She opened the inn door. Maurice stepped into the passage, heavily, almost like a drunken man. And this was the first night of their honeymoon.