move to meet the wishes of the girl now clinging to
his arm.

"Come, come," said she, and pressed him gently at the arm; but yet he
stood dubious in the dusk.

"Are you afraid?" she asked, herself whispering, she could not tell why.

He felt his face burn at the reflection; he shook her hand off
almost angrily. "Afraid!" said he. "Not I; what makes you think that?
Only--only----" His eyes were staring at the lawn.

"Only what?" she whispered again, seeking his side for the comfort of
his presence.

"It is stupid," he confessed, shame in his accent, "but they say the
fairies dance there, and I think we might be looking for another way."

At the confession, Nan's mood of fear that Gilian had conferred on her
was gone. She drew back and laughed with as much heartiness as at his
story of the heron's nest. The dusk was all around and they were all
alone, lost in a magic garden, but she forgot all in this new revelation
of her companion's strange belief. She turned and ran across the lawn,
crying as she went, "Follow me, follow me!" and Gilian, all the ecstasy
of that lingering moment on the edge of fancy gone, ran after her,
feeling himself a child of dream, and her the woman made for action.

A sadden opening in the thicket revealed the shore, the highway, the
quay with its bobbing lamps, the town with its upper windows lighted. At
the gateway of the garden the Cornal met them, He was close on them in
the dusk before he knew them, and seeing Gilian he peered closely in
the girl face.

"Who's this?" said he abruptly.

Gilian hesitated, vaguely fearing to reveal her identity, and Nan shrank
back, all her memories of conversation in Maam telling her that here was
an enemy.

Again the Cornal bent and looked more closely, lifting her chin up that
he might see the better. She flashed a glance of defiance in his scarred
old parchment face, and he drew his hand back as if he had been stung.

"Nan! Nan!" cried he, with a curious voice. "What witchery is this?" He
was in a tremble, Then he started and laughed bitterly. "Oh no, not
Nan!" said he. "Oh no, not Nan!" with the most rueful accent, almost
chanting it as if it were a dirge.

"'It _is_ Nan," said Gilian.

"It is her breathing image," said the old man. "It is Nan, no doubt, but
not the Nan I knew."

She turned and sped home by the seaside, without farewell, alarmed at
this oddity, and Gilian and the Cornal stood alone, the Cornal looking
after her with a wist