erything was made so beautiful as to seem ordered for the pleasure of
men, their lives and common comforts could not be overlooked. So plain
did this now appear to Mildred, that she felt less and less anxious and
fearful; and, after a time, as if she was afraid of nothing at all, and
could never be afraid again.

She determined to go and seek Roger,--not with any wish like Ailwin's,
that he could be bound by force, and carried away, to be alone and
miserable,--but with a much happier hope and purpose. She did not think
he would hurt her; but, if he did, she had rather that he should strike
her than that Oliver and he should fight, day after day, as Ailwin had
whispered to her they meant to do. She did not believe he could come to
blows with Oliver again, after she had taken all the blame upon herself.
So she set forth to do so.

She went on quickly enough while she was upon the slope, in the full
moonlight, and with the blaze of Ailwin's fire not far off on her right
hand. But she felt the difference when she entered the shade of the
trees. It was rather chilly there, and very silent. There was only a
rustle in the grass and brambles about her feet, as if she disturbed
some small animals hidden there. When she thought she was far enough
away from her party not to be heard by them, she began to call softly,
hoping that Roger might presently answer, so that she should not have to
go much further into the darkness. But she heard nothing but her own
voice, as she called, "Roger! Where are you, Roger? I want to speak to
you."

Further and further on she went; and still there was no reply. Though
she knew every inch of her way, she tripped several times over the roots
of the trees; and once she fell. She saw the stars in the spaces of the
wood, as she looked up, and knew that she should soon come out upon the
grass again. But when she did so, she found it almost as dark as in the
wood, though the moon shone on the waters afar. She still went on
calling Roger--now a little louder, till she stumbled over something
which was not the root of a tree, for it was warm, and it growled.

"Bishop!" she exclaimed, in alarm; for next to Roger, she had always
been afraid of Roger's dog.

"Why don't you call him Spy?" said Roger's voice, from the ground just
before her. "What business have you to call him by his wrong name?--how
is he ever to learn his name if people come calling him by the wrong
one? Get away--will yo