But, while she thought, she did not stand. Softly, with great strides she
went stalking along the road. She knew the country: she was not many
miles from her father's forge, whence at moments she seemed to hear the
ring of his hammer through the still night.

She kept to the road for three or four miles, then turned aside on a
great moor stretching far to the south: daybreak was coming fast; she
must find some cottage or natural shelter, lest the light should betray
her. When the sun had made his round, and yielded his place to the
friendly night, she would start afresh! In her bundle she had enough for
the baby; for herself, she could hold out many hours unfed. A few more
miles from Mortgrange, and no one would know her, neither from any
possible description could they be suspected in the garments they wore!
Her object in hiding their usual attire had been, that it might be taken
for granted they had gone away in it.

She did not slacken her pace till she had walked five miles more. Then
she stood a moment, and gazed about her. The great heath was all around,
solitary as the heaven out of which the solitary moon, with no child to
comfort her, was enviously watching them. But she would not stop to rest,
save for the briefest breathing space! On and on she went until moorland
miles five more, as near as she could judge, were behind her. Then at
length she sat down upon a stone, and a timid flutter of safety stirred
in her bosom, followed by a gush of love victorious. Her treasure! her
treasure! Not once on the long way had she looked at him. Now she folded
back the shawl, and gazed as not even a lover could have gazed on the
sleeping countenance of his rescued bride. The passion of no other
possession could have equalled the intensity of her conscious _having_.
Not one created being had a right to the child but herself!--yet any
moment he might be taken from her by a cold-hearted, cruel stepmother,