loitered, letting her rough
pony snatch tufts of fresh grass from the banks, and shamble leisurely
along as he strayed from one side of the road to another.

Phebe was not so much thinking as pondering in a confused and
unconnected manner over all the circumstances of the day, when suddenly
the tall figure of a man rose from under the black hedgerow, and laid
his arm across the pony's neck, with his face turned up to her. Her
heart throbbed quickly, but not altogether with terror.

"Mr. Roland!" she cried.

"You know me in the dark then," he answered. "I have been watching for
you all day, Phebe. You come from home?"

She knew he meant his home, not hers.

"Yes, it was Felix's birthday, and we have been down the river," she
said.

"Is anything known yet?" he asked.

Though it was so solitary a spot that Phebe had passed no one for the
last three miles, and he had been haunting the hills all day without
seeing a soul, yet he spoke in a whisper, as if fearful of betraying
himself.

"Only that you are away," she replied; "and they think you are in
London."

"Is not Mr. Clifford come?" he asked.

"No, sir, he comes to-morrow," she answered.

"Thank God!" he exclaimed, in a louder tone. When he spoke again he did
so without looking into her face, which indeed was scarcely visible in
the deepening dusk.

"Phebe," he said, "we have known each other for many years."

"All my life, sir," she responded eagerly; "father and me, we are proud
of knowing you."

Before speaking again he led her pony up the steep lane to a gate which
opened on the moorland. It was not so dark here, from under the
hedgerows and trees, and a little pool beside the gate caught the last
lingering light in the west, and reflected it like a dim and dusty
mirror. They could see one another's faces; his was working with strong
excitement, and hers, earnest and friendly, looked frankly down upon
him. He clasped her hand with the strong, desperate grip of a sinking
man, and her fingers responded with a warm clasp.

"Can I trust you, Phebe?" he cried. "I have no other chance."

"I will help you, even to dying for you and yours," she answered. The
girlish fervor of her manner struck him mournfully. Why should he burden
her with his crime? What right had he to demand any sacrifice from her?
Yet he felt she spoke the truth. Phebe Marlowe would rejoice in helping,
even unto death, not only him, but any other fellow-creature who was
sinking unde