“Spirits of the old Indians,” muttered Jon. “Only I don’t believe in spirits.”

“You would if you’d had a coloured nanny.”

“Did you have one?”

“Surely, with a voice as soft as mush melon. We have one old darkie still, who was a slave as a boy. He’s the best of all the negroes round—nearly eighty, with quite white hair.”

“Your father couldn’t have been in the Civil War, could he?”

“No; my two grandfathers and my great-grandfather.”

“And how old are you, Anne?”

“Nineteen.”

“I’m twenty-three.”

“Tell me about your home in England.”

“I haven’t one now.” He began an expurgated edition of his youth, and it seemed to him that she listened beautifully. He asked for her story in return; and, while she was telling it, wondered whether he liked her voice or not. It dwelled and slurred, but was soft and had great flavour. When she had finished her simple tale, for she had hardly been away from home, there was silence, till Jon said:

“I’ll go and see that the horses are all right; then perhaps you could get a snooze.”

He moved round the foot of the mound till he came to the horses, and stayed a little talking to them and stroking their noses. A feeling, warm and protective, stirred within him. This was a nice child, and a brave one. A face to remember, with lots behind it. Suddenly he heard her voice, low and as if pretending not to call: “Jon, oh, Jon!” He felt his way back through the darkness. Her hands were stretched out.

“It IS so spooky! That funny rustling! I’ve got creeps down my back!”

“The wind’s got up a bit. Let’s sit back to back—it’ll keep you warm. Or, look here, I’ll sit against the bank; if you lean up against me you could go to sleep. It’s only an hour or two now before we can ride on by moonlight.”

They took up the suggested postures, her back against his side, and her head in the hollow of his arm and shoulder.

“Comfy?”

“Surely. It stops the creeps.”