looking into the face of a woman who had no kinship with the world in which he had been born and had lived his days. Those were fugitive thoughts which passed between them, only half conceived, yet strong enough to remain as first and unforgettable impressions. Then the commonplace interests of the situation became insistent.

"I have broken down," Louise said. "My chauffeur tells me that it will take hours to effect some necessary repair to the car. And meanwhile—here we are!"

"You couldn't have chosen a worse place for a breakdown," the young man observed. "You are miles away from anywhere."

"You are indeed a comforter!" Louise murmured. "Do you think that you could possibly get down and advise us what to do? You look so far away up there."

There was another brief struggle between the man and his still frightened horse. Then the former swung himself down, and, with the bridle through his arm, came and stood by the car.

"If there is any way in which I can help," he ventured, "I am quite at your service."

Louise smiled at him. She remained unoppressed by any fear of inconvenience or hardship. She had the air of one rather enjoying her plight.

"Well, you have begun very nicely by doing what I asked you," she said. "Really, you know, to an impressionable person there was something rather terrifying about you when you appeared suddenly from out of the shadows in such a lonely place. I was beginning to wonder whether you were altogether real, whether one of those black hills there had not opened to let you out. You see, I know something of the legends of your country, although I have never been here before."

The young man was less at his ease. He stood tapping his boot nervously with his long riding-whip.

"I am sorry if I frightened you," he said. "My horse is a little restive, and the acetylene light which your chauffeur turned on him was sufficiently alarming."

"You did not exactly frighten me," she assured him, "but you looked so abnormally large. Please tell us what you would advise us to do. Is there a village near, or an inn, or even a barn? Or shall we have to spend the night in the car?"

"The nearest village," he replied, "is twelve miles away. Fortunately, my own home is close by. I shall be very pleased—I and my brother—if you will honor us. I am afraid I cannot offer you very much in the way of entertainment—"

She rose briskly to her feet and beamed upon him.

"You are indeed a good Samaritan!" she exclaimed. "A roof is more than we had dared to hope for, although when one looks up at this wonderful sky and breathes this air, one wonders, perhaps, whether a roof, after all, is such a blessing."

"It gets very cold toward morning," the young man said practically.

"Of course," she assented. "Aline, you will bring my dressing-bag and follow us. This gentleman is kind enough to offer us shelter for the night. Dear me, you really are almost as tall as you appeared!" she added, as she stood by his side. "For the first time in my life you make me feel undersized."

He looked down at her, a little more at his ease now by reason of the friendliness of her manner, although he had still the air of one embarked upon an adventure, the outcome of which was to be regarded with some qualms. She was of little more than medium height, and his first impressions of her were that she was thin, and too pale to be good-looking; that her eyes were large and soft, with eyebrows more clearly defined than is usual among Englishwomen; and that she moved without seeming to walk.

"I suppose I am tall," he admitted, as they started off along the road. "One doesn't notice it around here. My name is John Strangewey, and our house is just behind that clump of trees there, on the top of the hill. We will do our best to make you comfortable," he added a little doubtfully; "but there are only my brother and myself, and we have no women servants in the house."

"A roof of any sort will be a luxury," she assured him. "I only hope that we shall not be a trouble to you in any way."

"And your name, please?" he asked.

She was a little amazed at his directness, but she answered him without hesitation.

"My name," she told him, "is Louise."

He leaned down toward her, a little puzzled.

"Louise? But your surname?"

She laughed softly. It occurred to him that nothing like her laugh had ever been heard on that gray-walled stretch of mountain road.

"Never mind! I am traveling incognito. Who I am, or where I am going—well, what does that matter to anybody? Perhaps I do not know myself. You can imagine, if you like, that we came from the heart of your hills, and that to-morrow they will open again and welcome us back."

"I don't think there are any motor-cars in fairyland," he objected.

"We represent a new edition of fairy lore," she told him. "Modern romance, you know, includes motor-cars and even French maids."

"All the same," he protested, with masculine bluntness, "I really don't see how I can introduce you to my brother as 'Louise from fairyland.'"

She evaded the point.

"Tell me about your brother. Is he as tall as you, and is he younger or older?"

"He is nearly twenty years older," her companion replied. "He is about my height, but he stoops more than I do, and his hair is gray. I am afraid that you may find him a little peculiar."

Her escort paused and swung open a white gate on their left-hand side. Before them was an ascent which seemed to her, in the dim light, to be absolutely precipitous.

"Do we have to climb up that?" she asked ruefully.

"It isn't so bad as it looks," he assured her, "and I am afraid it's the only way up. The house is at the bend there, barely fifty yards away. You can see a light through the trees."

"You must help me, then, please," she begged.

He stooped down toward her. She linked her fingers together through his left arm, and, leaning a little heavily upon him, began the ascent. He was conscious of some subtle fragrance from her clothes, a perfume strangely different from the odor of the ghostlike flowers that bordered the steep path up which they were climbing. Her arms, slight, warm things though they were, and great though his own strength, felt suddenly like a yoke. At every step he seemed to feel their weight more insistent—a weight not physical, solely due to this rush of unexpected emotions.

It was he now whose thoughts rushed away to that medley of hill legends of which she had spoken. Was she indeed a creature of flesh and blood, of the same world as the dull people among whom he lived? Then he remembered the motor-car, the chauffeur, and the French maid, and he gave a little sigh of relief.

"Are we nearly there?" she asked. "Do tell me if I lean too heavily upon you."

"It is only a few steps further," he replied encouragingly. "Please lean upon me as heavily as you like."

She looked around her almost in wonder as her companion paused with his hand upon a little iron gate. From behind that jagged stretch of hills in the distance a corner of the moon had now appeared. By its light, looking backward, she could see the road which they had left below, the moorland stretching away into misty space, an uneasy panorama with its masses of gray boulders, its clumps of gorse, its hillocks and hollows.

Before her, through the little iron gate which her escort had pushed open, was a garden, a little austere looking with its prim flower-beds, filled with hyacinths and crocuses, bordering the flinty walks. The trees were all bent in the same direction, fashioned after one pattern by the winds. Before them was the house—a long, low