"
"Yes," replied Mysie, her face flushing slightly as she remembered the
incident, and how Peter had been chosen, when her heart told her to
choose Robert.
"Oh, well," said Peter, "I suppose we can't help these things. Fate
wills it. Let's forget all about such unpleasant things. It's a lovely
night. We might go round by the wood. It's not so late yet," and putting
Mysie's arm in his, he turned off into the little pathway that skirted
the wood, and she, caught by the glamor of the gloaming, as well as
flattered by his attentions, acquiesced.
Plaintive and eerie the moor-birds protested against this invasion of
their haunts. The moon came slowly up over the eastern end of the moor,
flinging a silver radiance abroad, and softening the shadows cast by the
hills. A strange, dank smell rose from the mossy ground--the scent of
rotting heather and withered grass, mixed with the beautiful perfume
from beds of wild thyme.
A low call came from a brooding curlew, a faint sigh from a plover, and
the wild rasping cry of a lapwing greeted them overhead. Yet there was a
silence, a silence broken for a moment by the cries of the birds, but a
silence thick and heavy.
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