Very bleak and cold was that walk across the desolate, lonely moor, but Kester St. George, buried in his own thoughts, hardly felt or heeded anything of it. All the sky was clouded and overcast, but far away to the north a still darker bank of cloud was creeping slowly up from the horizon.
The wind blew in hollow fitful gusts. Any one learned in such lore would have said that a change of weather was imminent.
When about half-way across the moor he halted for a moment to gather breath. On every side of him spread the dull treeless expanse. Nowhere was there another human being to be seen. He was utterly alone. “If a man crossing here were suddenly stricken with death,” he muttered to himself, “what a place this would be to die in! His body might lie here for days—for weeks even—before it was found.”
At length Mother Mim’s cottage was reached. Everything about it looked precisely the same as when he had seen it last. It seemed only like a few hours since he had left it. There, too, crouched on the low wall outside, with her skirt drawn over her head, was Mother Mim’s grand-daughter, the girl with the black glittering eyes, looking as if she had never stirred from the spot since he was last there. She made no movement or sign of recognition when he walked up to her, but her eyes were full of a cold keen criticism of him, far beyond her age and appearance.
“How is your grandmother?” said Kester, abruptly. He did not like being stared at as she stared at him.
“She’s dead.”
“Dead!” It was no more than he expected to hear, and yet he could not hear it altogether unmoved.
“Ay, as dead as a door nail. And a good job too. It was time she went.”
“How long has she been dead?” asked Kester, ignoring the latter part of the girl’s speech.
“Just half an hour.”