as though it held a threat. And, above all, thick and hard and
agitatingly distinct, arose the throbbing of her frightened heart.

All the horrors she had ever heard or dreamt of passed through her brain
as she waited there, yet with a certain desperate courage she kept
herself from panic. Cinders might run against her at any moment--at any
moment. And even if not, even if she were indeed quite alone in that
awful place, she had heard it said that God was nearer to people in the
dark.

"O God," she whispered, "I am so frightened. Do bring them both back
soon."

After the small prayer she felt reassured. She touched the clammy wall on
each side of her, and essayed a tremulous whistle. It was a brave little
tune; she knew not whence it came till it suddenly flashed upon her that
she had heard it on Bertrand's lips on the day that he had drawn his
pictures in the sand. And that also renewed her courage. After all, what
had she to fear?

Over and over again she whistled it with growing confidence, improving
her memory each time, till suddenly in the middle of a bar there came the
rush and patter of feet, a yelp of sheer, exuberant delight, and Cinders,
the wanderer, wet, ecstatic, and quite shameless, leaped into her arms.




CHAPTER VI