How long she had been there she did not know. She looked about her, wondering where she was; how she had come there. She was in the open air; above her were the stars in the sky. She seemed to be lying on some rubbish; but something hard was underneath. How her head ached; it made her feel so stupid. Putting up her hand to soothe it, she found that it hurt her almost as much as her head. Staring at it, in the dim light she could just make out that it was covered with something wet. All at once she remembered, hazily; and sat up straighter. She had dropped from the window--it must be somewhere above her; she could not see it from where she was. This rough surface which she touched when she put out her poor, hurt hand must be the outer wall of the hotel.

One thing was plain: she was not dead; and so it behoved her not to stay where she was a moment longer than she could help; she had not dropped from the window to spend the night on the ground immediately beneath. She raised herself to her feet; the process occasioning her more pain than she had expected. It was all she could do to stand. One ankle showed a disposition to double up; her left leg smarted so that the pain of it brought the tears into her eyes. Indeed, there were smarts and aches all over her; her arms seemed limp and her hands nerveless; her whole body felt hurt, and bruised, and shaken. Her first impulse, when she learnt the plight she was in, was to sink back on to the ground, from which she had with such difficulty raised herself, and cry. But, even in the half-dazed condition in which she was, she recognised that such a mode of procedure would be worse than futile. Since she had risked so much to get so far she might at least try to get a little farther. Now, in all probability, only a little courage was needed to enable her to get at least clear away from that immediate neighbourhood.

Which way should she go? She looked about her. The light, if dim, was sufficient to enable her to make out something of her surroundings. Seemingly the place in which she was had nothing to do with the hotel. It was apparently a yard which was associated with the adjoining house. What kind of house it was she could not see; she could see windows, but behind them no lights were visible; the whole place seemed to be in darkness. There were buildings on three sides of the yard. She could just see what seemed to be a door which led into the house; it was hardly likely to be of much use to her--she would be little better off in the adjoining house than in the hotel which she had just now quitted. She looked for another door; and saw that there was one in the wall which bounded the yard on the fourth side. She moved towards it, stumbling over unseen obstacles as she went. Reaching it, she raised the latch; the door was open. Passing through she found herself in a narrow alley, which ran between two walls. Since, to her, direction mattered nothing, she turned to the left; then, when she had gone some little distance, to the left again; and presently came to what was apparently the principal street of the town. Conscious of the singularity of her appearance: dressed, as she was, for indoors; hatless; with her attire in disorder; being unwilling to attract notice, she peered anxiously about her alley. At that hour of the night even the town's chief thoroughfare was nearly deserted. Gaining courage from the fact, passing into it, she pressed forward with hurrying footsteps, leaving the hotel more and more behind her as she went.

Occasionally she met both pedestrians and vehicles; but no one seemed to take any special heed of her. Either they were too occupied with their own affairs; or else they saw nothing about her to rouse their interest. On and on she went; always along the same broad street; the farther she went the fewer people she encountered. At last it seemed to her that she had gone some distance without meeting a soul. Looking round she perceived that she seemed to have left the town behind; the high street seemed to have become a country road. Here and there by the roadside were detached villas and houses; but the long unbroken line of buildings had come to an end. Pressing on she found that the villas and the houses were becoming fewer and farther between; she was in the open country. On a sudden even the fertile country, with its fields and trees and hedges, seemed to have gone; the road seemed to be passing over an illimitable expanse of open heath.

She was so tired; so stiff; and in such pain. Her ankle hurt her so that she could hardly put her foot to the ground. The leg which she had grazed against the wall, as she had lowered herself from the sill, smarted almost beyond endurance. Her bruised body ached all over; her head ached worse than her body. As she paused to take her bearings all these things forced themselves on her at once. She became conscious that, however great the need, she could not go on much farther without a rest. Where was she to rest? Out here the world seemed brighter; the stars brighter. Certainly the air was clearer. She could see on all sides of her, by the light of the stars, ever so far; little enough there seemed to see. Here and there, the way she had come, were the outlines of houses; but in front, and on either hand, was nothing but the open moor; broken by what probably were clumps of furze and bushes. Should she lie down by the side of one of those clumps, to rest? The turf ought to be dry; there was promise of fair weather; she would be better there than alone in a room with Mr Emmett, be he alive or dead. The thing to be desired was to get at some distance from the road, so that she might escape observation from passers-by. She began to pick her way, as best she could, across the grass. Her objective was a patch of brushwood which, so far as she was able to judge, was at a distance of perhaps a couple of hundred yards; far enough from the road to ensure her privacy. Gaining the edge of the patch, she began to thread her way among the bushes; determined, if she could, to reach the centre, so that they might stand up round about her, and so serve as an effective screen. She had just decided that she had got as far in among them as she need, and was about to allow herself the luxury of sinking down upon the turf, when there was a rustling sound, and, looking up, a man seemed to rise out of the solid earth, within a few feet of where she was standing.

Which of the twain was more surprised there was nothing to show; the man was the first to speak; which he did in a voice which at least hinted at cultivation:

"Who are you?"

The girl, taken wholly unawares, replied, in faltering tones, as a child might have done:

"I'm--I'm Dorothy."

"Oh, you are Dorothy; that's good hearing. And pray, Dorothy, from where did you happen to have sprung?"

She echoed his word.

"Sprung?"

"Yes; literally and correctly, sprung; for since a minute ago there was no one within a mile, one only can conclude that you have sprung clean out of mother earth. If you haven't, how do you come to be there?--from where have you come?"

"I've come--from the road."

"From the road. That's very illuminating. Did you come to this particular spot because you knew that I was here?"

"Knew--that you were here!"

Her manner seemed to strike him. There was an interval before he spoke again.

"I think, if you don't mind, I'll come and have a better look at you."

He came striding towards her through the bushes. Her impulse was to turn and flee. But, partly because she was no longer capable of flight, partly because there was something in his tone which spoke pleasantly to her ear, she stayed quite still, without making an effort to move. He advanced until he was within a yard of her; then he stopped. She had watched him coming with sensations which she would have found it hard to define; when he stopped she trembled. In silence he stood and looked at her; while she, on her side, looked at him. She realised, with a distinct sense of relief, that there seemed to be nothing to offend her in his appearance. So far as she could judge, in that uncertain light, he was not old, nor very young. He had a small beard and moustache. His head, like her own, was uncovered. He seemed to be decently attired--though he wore no waistcoat, and his shirt was open at the neck. In his left hand he had a pipe, which, as he continued to inspect her, he placed in his mouth. She could see the smoke issuing from between his lips.

When he spoke, the question which he put to her was as unconventional as their meeting:

"How old are you?"

Without hesitation she replied:

"I'm nearly eighteen."

"Nearly eighteen? That's a great age. Aren't you a lady?"

"I--I don't know."

"Don't you? Then you're wise. Very few women do know if they are or are not ladies; they only think they know; and how often they think wrong. However, as a matter of simple fact, I think we may take it for granted that, for present purposes, you approach as near to the accepted definition of what a lady is as needs be; and, therefore, I should very much like to know why, at this hour of the night, you're here."

"I came to rest."

"You came to rest?--where?"

"Here."

"What do you mean by here?"

"Here, among the bushes, where--where they won't be able to see me from the road. I didn't know that you were here. If I am in your way I'll--I'll go."

"It isn't that you're in my way that's the trouble. The difficulty which presents itself to my mind is, why do you want to rest among the bushes?"

"Because I'm tired."

"That's a good reason, so far as it goes; and you both look and sound as if you were tired; but why the bushes, when you might be safe and snug at home in bed? Where is your home?"

"I have no home."

"Is that true?"

"Quite true. I never have had a home."

He seemed to be considering her words.

"There's a quibble about that statement somewhere. Girls like you don't attain to the ripe age of nearly eighteen years without ever having had a home; you're not a product of a vagabond life. However, I'll feign to believe you, if I don't; since, just now, the point seems to be that you do propose to spend at least this one night with no canopy above you but the sky. Is that so?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Then you're dull; my meaning's not opaque. Am I to understand that you seriously propose to spend the night out in the open?"

"I am tired; I want to rest; I must rest somewhere; I--I can't keep walking all night."

"No; you certainly can't; and, since that is the case, you had better come with me."

He turned, as if to go. She drew back.

"Where to?"

He noted the gesture.

"Not far; only a few steps. Are you afraid of me?"

"No; I don't think I am."

"Be sure, please. Doesn't your instinct tell you that there's nothing about me which you need fear? It's hard on me if it doesn't, since my one prayer is that no one who is helpless, hopeless, and in trouble shall ever be afraid of me. So please be sure that you are not afraid; and come." He moved off; this time she followed; though still a little doubtfully. He led her, between the bushes, to where the ground began to fall away; pausing on the crest of the slope, he pointed to a caravan which was immediately in front, at the bottom of a little hollow, which was just deep enough to hide it from view till one was right upon it. "You say that you've no home; that's mine--pro tem.--for this summer time, which flies all too quickly. And, while it's summer, it's a home fit for a lord; a king need want no better; and, for this night, it's yours." He stopped; then, seeing that she looked at him askance, went on: "By that I mean that if, instead of spending the night in the open, resting beneath the bushes, you will accept the hospitality of my caravan, and take up your quarters in it till the morning, I shall be honoured, flattered, and obliged."

She was staring at him with wide-open eyes.

"Do you mean that you wish me to sleep in there?"

She pointed to the structure down below.

"If you will so far honour me--if you will be so very good."

"But--where are you to sleep?--if that's your home?"

"I'll show you." She went beside him down the slope till they came to where some things were lying on the ground. "That's my bed; my sleeping-place. There's a waterproof sheet stretched out upon the grass, pegged down at each of the four corners. On it are all the wraps I need for covering. On a night like this I'd sooner lie under those"--he pointed upward to the stars--"than under a painted ceiling. So, since my house is empty, it'll be glad to have a tenant. You'll find in it all the bed and bedding you require. I'll be out here, sleeping, like a watchdog, at your door. You've only to bolt and bar it, and you'll be as safe from molestation as you could be in any hotel that ever yet was built." He ascended the two or three steps which mounted to the door of the caravan, and went inside. "If you'll wait till I've lighted the lamp I'll show you what excellent accommodation my establishment has to offer." Presently she found herself standing with him in the queerest room she had seen. Tired though she was, she could not help noticing its spotless cleanliness; and, in spite of its small size, how dexterously its contents were arranged, so that not only was nothing in the way, but there were conveniences of many kinds which one would not expect to find in such cramped quarters. On a sort of shelf on one side a bed was made. "That's your couch for to-night. I always get it ready for immediate occupation when the shades of evening fall. In this dear English climate prophecy is vain; one never knows what may happen between sunset and sunrise. You go to bed under a cloudless sky, to wake, an hour later, because you are being pelted by the rain. Since my education has not yet gone far enough to enable me to enjoy sleeping in the rain, under those circumstances I pick up my bed, and beat a hasty retreat in here. And as one generally wants to get to sleep again with the least possible delay, I make a point of having this in readiness, so that I may tumble in upon the instant. See; here's a bolt, and here's a bar; push them home, when I am gone, and you'll be as safe as if you were in the Tower of London."

When he had gone she acted on his advice. Apparently he was listening without; because, when the door was made fast, he called to her.

"Good-night!--sleep well!--may the angels touch your eyelids if you dream!"

She bade him good-night, in her turn; though hers was spoken scarcely above a whisper. Her desire was to look about her; to take some stock of her new and strange surroundings; but her weariness was greater than her desire. Half unconsciously she sank down on the bed upon the shelf, just as she was. As she touched it, she sighed; and was asleep.

She was roused by the sound of knocking. She was vaguely aware that someone was making a noise for some little time before she succeeded in waking sufficiently to make quite sure. Lifting her head she perceived that though the lamp still burned its light was quite superfluous, since the sun was streaming in through the narrow window which ran along one side of the caravan. There was no mistake about that noise. Rat-tat-tat! Someone was keeping up a sustained and vigorous rapping against the door.

"Who's there?" she asked.

"No one in particular; only me. I was beginning to wonder if you were going to sleep the clock right round. You must forgive me for disturbing you; I wouldn't have done it only I've a sort of feeling that it's nearly breakfast-time; especially as, in a general way, I've had my breakfast, washed up, and put away the things, a couple of hours ago. The trouble is that all the cooking utensils of which my establishment boasts are inside with you; so, if you're awake wide enough, if, at your convenience, you could manage to come outside, I could come in, and start upon that morning meal." For some seconds, in her drowsy state, she could not conceive who it could be who was talking. When she remembered, although she was alone, she put her hands up to her face to hide her blushes. In that convent of hers maidens were taught to be maidenly; it burst upon her, with some force, that there was that about her situation which was scarcely conventual. The voice without went on: "There's a can of water just outside the door; if you put two fingers out you'll be able to get it in. If you'll open the cupboard above your head you'll find a looking-glass--which you'll be able to hang on any one of a dozen different hooks--a basin, and, I believe, all the essentials necessary for an elementary toilet."

Getting off the bed, she was conscious, although she still ached, of feeling distinctly rested; and that though she had slept with all her clothes on. Unbarring the door she drew in the can of water; saying, as she did so:

"I am so sorry to have kept you waiting; but I--I did sleep so soundly. I won't be a moment longer than I can help."

Nor was it long before she threw the door wide open, and came out on to the ledge at the top of the little flight of steps. He was lying on the turf, with a pipe in his mouth, a newspaper in his hands. She was conscious, as she came out into the open, of the glory of the morning. He seemed to be conscious only of her. Jumping up he saluted her with his hand.

"Why," he exclaimed, "you're a living advertisement of the excellence of my domestic arrangements; you look as fresh as a new pin. If you had been able to indulge in the luxury of a marble bath, and a barber, you could look no fresher. Good-morning--I need not ask you how you've slept--and here's the sun in a cloudless sky to greet you."

She came down the steps, all blushes; smiling as she had not done since she left the convent. The process of preparing breakfast began. She was conscious that she ought to intrude no longer on this stranger's hospitality. But, in the first place, her shyness kept her from giving expression to that consciousness; and, in the second, something told her that, say what she might, he would not let her go till she had shared with him his morning meal. So, making a virtue of what really was necessity, she held her peace upon the subject of her going; and helped him with his preparations for the meal.

Girl-like, she found those preparations most amusing; she had not been so entertained for many a day. There were eggs and bacon to be fried; the kettle to be boiled; bread and butter to be cut; the table to be laid. Acting on instructions, this latter she made her special business. The table was the ground. On it she spread a tablecloth; on the white cloth were placed the necessary cups and saucers, plates and spoons, knives and forks. The cooking was done on an oil-stove inside the caravan.

"Read the advertisements," exclaimed the stranger, "and an oil-stove can do anything that the most unreasonable camper-out can possibly require--up to cooking a dinner for any number, anywhere, in a torrent of rain and a storm of wind. As a matter of plain fact it won't really cook out-of-doors at all; that's the one advantage of a house on wheels: you can keep it under cover, though it smells the place out. Humour an oil-stove; coddle it; and it may cook something, sometimes, which a hardy stomach may be able to digest. Subject it to any one of the ten million conditions it dislikes, fight as you will, it will beat you out of sight; and, in spite of all your struggles, you'll go hungry in the end. I know! I've tried every sort that's made; each is worse than the other. Now where's that dish? I've a constitutional objection to eating my food out of a frying-pan, if it can possibly be avoided; so if you'll be so good as to take the dish out of the oven, where it's supposed to be getting hot, I'll turn these eggs and this bacon out upon it, and we'll start on them while we still have strength enough to do it."

Presently the girl and the man were seated on opposite sides of that impromptu table.