that," smiled Moya, "you will leave me for the night, won't
you? I feel as if I should never want to get up again!"

"I'm sure you do, my dear," the good woman cried.

"I shall lock my door," said Moya. "Don't let anybody come to me in the
morning; beg my brother not to come."

"Indeed I'll see he doesn't."

And Mrs. Duncan departed as one who had been told little but who guessed
much, with a shake of her head, and a nod to follow in case there was
nothing to shake it over; for she was entirely baffled.

Moya locked the door on her.

"To think I should have forgotten! My one hope--my one!"

And she ate every morsel on the tray; then undressed and went properly
to bed, for the sake of the rest. But to sleep she was afraid, lest she
might sleep too long. And between midnight and dawn, she was not only up
once more, but abroad by herself in the darkest hour.

Her door she left locked behind her; the key she pushed underneath; and
she stepped across the verandah with her riding habit gathered up in one
hand, and both shoes clutched in the other.

"It is dreadful! I am as bad as he is. But I can't help it. There's
nobody else to do it for me--unless I tell them first. And at least I
can keep his secret!"

The various buildings lay vague and opaque in the darkness: not a spark
of light in any one of them. And the moon had set; the stars alone lit
Moya to the horse-yard.

Luckily she was not unused to horses. She not only had her own hack at
home, but made a pet of it and kept her eye upon the groom. A single
match, blown out in an instant, showed Moya the saddle and bridle which
she had already used, with a water-bag hanging hard by, in the hut
adjoining the yard. The bag she filled from the tank outside. The rest
was an even simpler matter; a rocking-horse could not have stood quieter
than the bony beast which Ives had left behind with the night-horse.

It proved a strong and stolid mount, with a hard, unyielding, but
methodical canter, and only one bad habit: it shaved trees and gateposts
a little too closely for a rider unaccustomed to the bush. Moya was near
disaster at the start; thereafter she allowed for the blemish, and
crossed Butcher-boy without mishap.

It was now the darkest quarter of the darkest hour; and Moya was quite
thankful that she had no longer a track to follow or to lose. For in Big
Bushy she turned sharply to the left, as in the morning with young Ives,
and once more followed the fence;