sharing with the soil and the trees the mysterious quality of the night. The voices passed up the road—silence and then more voices.
Peter unlatched the gate and stole out to the road, stumbling over the rough moorland path and clambering across the ditch to safer ground. Figures were moving like shadows and voices fell echoing and re-echoing like notes of music—this was dissociated from all human feeling, and the mists curled up like smoke and faded into the air. Peter, in silence, followed these shadows and knew that there were other shadows behind him. It would not take long to climb the Grey Hill—they would be at the top by half-past five.
There was a voice in his ear:
“Hallo! You—Westcott! Why, who would have thought it?”
He turned round and found at his side the peaked face of Willie Daffoll, now a young man of eighteen, with an affection for bright ties and socks, once the small child who had fought with Peter at old Parlow's years ago. Peter had not seen very much of him during those years. They had met in the streets of Treliss, had spoken a word or two, but no friendship or intimacy. But this early hour, this mysterious dawn, bred confidence, and Peter having grown, under the approaching glitter of London, more human, during the last few weeks than he had been in all his life before, was glad to talk to him.
“Oh, I've often wanted to go,” he said. “It brings good luck, you know,”
“Well, fancy your believing that. I never thought you'd believe in rot like that.”
“Why are you going, then?”
The young man of ties and waistcoats dropped his voice. “Oh—a girl. She's here somewhere—she said she'd come—thinks there's something in it. Anyhow she wants it—she's stunning . . .”
A girl! Peter's mind flew absurdly back to a small child in a short black frock. “Oh! Crumpet!” . . . A girl! Young Daffoll had spoken as though it were indeed something to get up at four in the morning for! Peter wanted to hear more. Young Daffoll was quite ready to tell him. No names, of course, but they were going to be married
