I knew he sat quite late in the library that night, talking to Angus after his mother and I went to our rooms.  Just as I was falling asleep I remember there floated through my mind a vague recollection of what Angus had said to me of asking his advice about something; and I wondered if he would reach the subject in their talk, or if they would spend all their time in poring over manuscripts and books together.

The moor wore its most mysterious look when I got up in the early morning.  It had hidden itself in its softest snows of white, swathing mist.  Only here and there dark fir-trees showed themselves above it, and now and then the whiteness thinned or broke and drifted.  It was as I had wanted him to see it—­just as I had wanted to walk through it with him.

We had met in the hall as we had planned, and, wrapped in our plaids because the early morning air was cold, we tramped away together.  No one but myself could ever realize what it was like.  I had never known that there could be such a feeling of companionship in the world.  It would not have been necessary for us to talk at all if we had felt silent.  We should have been saying things to each other without words.  But we did talk as we walked—­in quiet voices which seemed made quieter by the mist, and of quiet things which such voices seemed to belong to.

We crossed the park to a stile in a hedge where a path led at once on to the moor.  Part of the park itself had once been moorland, and was dark with slender firs and thick grown with heather and broom.  On the moor the mist grew thicker, and if I had not so well known the path we might have lost ourselves in it.  Also I knew by heart certain little streams that rushed and made guiding sounds which were sometimes loud whispers and sometimes singing babbles.  The damp, sweet scent of fern and heather was in our nostrils; as we climbed we breathed its freshness.

“There is a sort of unearthly loveliness in it all,” Hector MacNairn said to me.  His voice was rather like his mother’s.  It always seemed to say so much more than his words.

“We might be ghosts,” I answered.  “We might be some of those the mist hides because they like to be hidden.”

“You would not be afraid if you met one of them?” he said.

“No.  I think I am sure of that.  I should feel that it was only like myself, and, if I could hear, might tell me things I want to know.”

“What do you want to know?” he asked me, very low.  “You!”

“Only what everybody wants to know—­that it is really awakening free, ready for wonderful new things, finding oneself in the midst of wonders.  I don’t mean angels with harps and crowns, but beauty such as we see now; only seeing it without burdens of fears before and behind us.  And knowing there is no reason to be afraid.  We have all been so afraid.  We don’t know how afraid we have been—­of everything.”

I stopped among the heather and threw my arms out wide.  I drew in a great, joyous morning breath.