"In Southberry Church, talking to a puny curate, who did not deserve such a companion. Oh, Robin, her voice! like an Eolian harp." "It must possess a variety of tones then Jim. Did she see you?" Herrick nodded and laughed again. "She looked and blushed. Beauty drew me with a single hair, therefore I thrilled responsive. Love at first sight Robin. Heigh-ho! never again shall I see this Helen of Marleigh." "Live in hope," said Joyce, springing to his feet. "Allons, mon ami." The more leisurely Herrick rose, markedly surprised at this sudden recuperation. "Wonderful man. One minute you are dying, the next skipping like a two year old. Hysterical all the same," he added as Joyce laughed. "Those three miles," explained the other feverishly, "I feel that I have to walk them, and my determination is braced to breaking point." "That means you'll collapse half way," retorted the doctor unstrapping his knapsack. "Light a match. Valerian for you my man." Robin made no objection. He knew the value of Valerian for those unruly nerves of his, at present vibrating like so many harp-strings, twangled by an unskilful player. His small white face looked smaller and whiter than ever in the faint light of the match; but his great black eyes flamed like wind-blown torches. The contrast of Herrick's sun-tanned Saxon looks, struck him as almost ludicrous. Joyce needed no mirror to assure him of his appearance at the moment. He knew only too well how he aged on the eve of a nerve storm. For the present it was averted by the valerian; but he knew and so did Herrick, that sooner or later it would surely come. "We must get on as fast as possible," said Herrick, the knapsack again on his broad back. "Food, drink, rest; you need all three. Forward!" For some time they walked on in silence. Robin was so small, Dr. Jim so large, that they looked like the giant and dwarf of the old fairy tale on their travels. But in this case it was the giant who did all the work. Joyce was a pampered, lazy, irresponsible child, in the direct line of descent from Harold Skimpole. If Jim Herrick must be likened to another hero of romance, Amyas Leigh was his prototype. The shadows melted before them, and closed in behind, and still there was nothing but plain and mist. At the end of two miles a dark bulk like a thunder-cloud, loomed before them. It stretched directly across their path. "Bogey," laughed Robin. "A wood," said the more prosaic Jim, "this moor is fringed with pine-woods: remember the forest we passed through this morning." "In the cheerful sunshine," shuddered Joyce. "I don't like woodlands by night. The fairies are about and goblins of the worst. Ha! Yonder the lantern of Puck. Oberon holds revel in the wood." "Puck must be putting a girdle round the earth then Robin," said Herrick and stared at the white starry light, which beamed above the trees.