ear spaces. Maynard looked at
his watch, half-mindful of a train to be caught somewhere miles away,
and then, held by the peace of running water, stretched himself against
the sloping ground.

The glowing world seemed peopled by tiny folk, living out their timid,
inscrutable lives around him. A water-rat, passing bright-eyed upon his
lawful occasion, paused on the border of the stream to consider the
stranger, and was lost to view. A stagnant pool among some reeds caught
the reflection of the sunset and changed on the instant into raw gold.

Maynard plucked a grass stem and chewed it reflectively, staring out
across the purple moor and lazily watching the western sky turn from
glory to glory. Over his head the smoke of the sacrifice still curled
and eddied upwards. Then a sudden sound sent him on to one elbow--the
thud of an approaching horse's hoofs.

"Moor ponies!" he muttered, and, rising, stood expectant beside his
smoking altar.

Then he heard the sudden jingle of a bit, and presently a horse and
rider climbed into view against the pure sky. A young girl, breeched,
booted and spurred like a boy, drew rein, and sat looking down into the
hollow.

For a moment neither spoke; then Maynard acknowledged her presence by
raising his tweed hat. She gave a little nod.

"I thought it was somebody swaling--burning the heather." She considered
the embers on the stone, and then her grey eyes travelled back to the
spare, tweed-clad figure beside it.

He smiled in his slow way--a rather attractive smile.

"No. I've just concluded some pagan rites in connection with a small
trout!" He nodded gravely at the stone. "That was a burnt sacrifice."
With whimsical seriousness he told her of the trout's demise and high
destiny.

For a moment she looked doubtful; but the inflection of breeding in his
voice, the wholesome, lean face and humorous eyes, reassured her. A
smile hovered about the corners of her mouth.

"Oh, is that it? I wondered ..."

She gathered the reins and turned her horse's head.

"Forgive me if I dragged you out of your way," said Maynard, never swift
to conventionality, but touched by the tired shadows in her eyes. The
faint droop of her mouth, too, betrayed intense fatigue. "You look
fagged. I don't want to be a nuisance or bore you, but I wish you'd let
me offer you a sandwich. I've some milk here, too."

The girl looked round the ragged moor, brooding in the twilight, and
half hesitated. Then she forc