She got up and came over to him and stood beside him, and presently he felt her fingers slip into his own.

“North-northeast,” she said; and these words, when he thought of them afterwards, brought back every flicker of his feelings, as he stood stiffly there clutching her hand.

“Where does that lane go?” he asked. “Do you see what I mean? That narrow little one below those Scotch firs.”

“Over there?” the girl questioned. “To the left of Poll’s Camp, do you mean?”

“Yes⁠ ⁠… there⁠ ⁠… just there⁠ ⁠… where that clump of bushes is!”

“That’s Gwent Lane,” she answered. “And it leads to a whole maze of lanes further on. I’m fond of going to the Gwent Lanes. You hardly ever meet anyone there. It’s as if they had been designed to keep traffic away and strangers away. Sometimes on Summer days when Father doesn’t want me, I take my lunch and a book and stay in the Gwent Lanes all day. I often never meet a soul.”