as usual. It was shameful to be left alone like this, to be robbed,
murdered, goodness knew what. The bonfire began to die out, but every
now and then a circle of small black figures would join hands and dance
round it, scattering wildly after a moment or two. In a lull of the
wind she caught the faint sound of shouts and singing, and this
determined her.

She turned back from the window and groped for her tinder-box.
The glow, as she blew the spark upon the dry rag, lit up a very pretty
but tear-stained pair of cheeks; and when she touched off the brimstone
match, and, looking up, saw her face confronting her, blue and tragical,
from the dark-framed mirror, it reminded her of Lady Macbeth.
Hastily lighting the candle, she caught up a shawl and crept
down-stairs. Her clogs were in the hall; and four horn lanterns dangled
from a row of pegs above them. She caught down one, lit it, and
throwing the shawl over her head, stepped out into the night.

The wind was dying down and seemed almost warm upon her face. A young
moon fought gallantly, giving the massed clouds just enough light to
sail by; but in the lane it was dark as pitch. This did not so much
matter, as the rain had poured down it like a sluice, washing the flints
clean. Ruby's lantern swung to and fro, casting a yellow glare on the
tall hedges, drawing queer gleams from the holly-bushes, and flinging an
ugly, amorphous shadow behind, that dogged her like an enemy.

At the foot of the lane she could clearly distinguish the songs, shouts,
and shrill laughter, above the hollow roar of the breakers.

"They're playin' kiss-i'-the-ring. That's Modesty Prowse's laugh.
I wonder how any man _can_ kiss a mouth like Modesty Prowse's!"