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He was debating within himself the advisability of trying to find words to express this sentiment； when Mr Pickering； the modern Chingachgook； trod on another twig in the background and Elizabeth stopped abruptly with a little cry。
'What was that？' she demanded。
Bill had heard a noise too。 It was impossible to be within a dozen yards of Mr Pickering； when on the trail； and not hear a noise。 The suspicion that someone was following them did not e to him； for he was a man rather of mon sense than of imagination； and mon sense was asking him bluntly why the deuce anybody should want to tramp after them through a wood at that time of night。 He caught the note of panic in Elizabeth's voice； and was soothing her。
'It was just a branch breaking。 You hear all sorts of rum noises in a wood。'
'I believe it's the man with the pistol following us！'
'Nonsense。 Why should he？ Silly thing to do！' He spoke almost severely。
'Look！' cried Elizabeth。
'What？'
'I saw someone dodge behind that tree。'
'You mustn't let yourself imagine things。 Buck up！'
'I can't buck up。 I'm scared。'
'Which tree did you think you saw someone dodge behind？'
'That big one there。'
'Well； listen： I'll go back and'
'If you leave me for an instant I shall die in agonies。' She gulped。 'I never knew I was such a coward before。 I'm just a worm。'
'Nonsense。 This sort of thing might frighten anyone。 I read a story once'
'Don't！'
Bill found that his heart had suddenly begun to beat with unaccustomed rapidity。 The desire to soothe； fort； and protect Elizabeth became the immediate ambition of his life。 It was very dark where they stood。 The moonlight； which fell in little patches round them； did not penetrate the thicket which they had entered。 He could hardly see her。 He was merely aware of her as a presence。 An excellent idea occurred to him。
'Hold my hand；' he said。
It was what he would have said to a frightened child； and there was much of the frightened child about Elizabeth then。 The Eustace mystery had given her a shock which subsequent events had done nothing to dispel； and she had lost that jauntiness and self…confidence which was her natural armour against the more ordinary happenings of life。
Something small and soft slid gratefully into his palm； and there was silence for a space。 Bill said nothing。 Elizabeth said nothing。 And Mr Pickering had stopped treading on twigs。 The faintest of night breezes ruffled the tree…tops above them。 The moonbeams filtered through the branches。 He held her hand tightly。
'Better？'
'Much。'
The breeze died away。 Not a leaf stirred。 The wood was very still。 Somewhere on a bough a bird moved drowsily 'All right？'
'Yes。'
And then something happenedsomething shattering； disintegrating。 It was only a pheasant； but it sounded like the end of the world。 It rose at their feet with a rattle that filled the universe； and for a moment all was black confusion。 And when that moment had passed it became apparent to Bill that his arm was round Elizabeth； that she was sobbing helplessly； and that he was kissing her。 Somebody was talking very rapidly in a low voice。
He found that it was himself。
'Elizabeth！'
There was something wonderful about the name； a sort of music。 This was odd； because the name； as a name； was far from being a favourite of his。 Until that moment childish associations had prejudiced him against it。 It had been inextricably involved in his mind with an atmosphere of stuffy schoolrooms and general misery； for it had been his misfortune that his budding mind was constitutionally incapable of remembering who had been Queen of England at the time of the Spanish Armadaa fact that had caused a good deal of friction with a rather sharp…tempered governess。 But now it seemed the only possible name for a girl to have； the only label that could even remotely suggest those feminine charms which he found in this girl beside him。 There was poetry in every syllable of it。 It was like one of those deep chords which fill the hearer with vague yearnings for strange and beautiful things。 He asked for nothing better than to stand here repeating it。
'Elizabeth！'
'Bill； dear！'
That sounded good too。 There was music in 'Bill' when properly spoken。 The reason why all the other Bills in the world had got the impression that it was a prosaic sort of name was that there was only one girl in existence capable of speaking it properly； and she was not for them。
'Bill； are you really fond of me？'
'Fond of you！'
She gave a sigh。 'You're so splendid！'
Bill was staggered。 These were strange words。 He had never thought much of himself。 He had always looked on himself as rather a chumpwell…meaning； perhaps； but an awful ass。 It seemed incredible that any oneand Elizabeth of all peoplecould look on him as splendid。
And yet the very fact that she had said it gave it a plausible sort of sound。 It shook his convictions。 Splendid！ Was he？ By Jove； perhaps he was； what？ Rum idea； but it grew on a chap。 Filled with a novel feeling of exaltation； he kissed Elizabeth eleven times in rapid succession。
He felt devilish fit。 He would have liked to run a mile or two and jump a few gates。 He wished five or six starving beggars would e along； it would be pleasant to give the poor blighters money。 It was too much to expect at that time of night； of course； but it would be rather jolly if Jess Willard would roll up and try to pick a quarrel。 He would show him something。 He felt grand and strong and full of beans。 What a ripping thing life was when you came to think of it。
'This；' he said； 'is perfectly extraordinary！' And time stood still。
A sense of something incongruous jarred upon Bill。 Something seemed to be interfering with the supreme romance of that golden moment。 It baffled him at first。 Then he realized that he was still holding Eustace by the tail。
Dudley Pickering had watched these proceedingsas well as the fact that it was extremely dark and that he was endeavouring to hide a portly form behind a slender bush would permit himwith a sense of bewilderment。 A ic artist drawing Mr Pickering at that moment would no doubt have placed above his head one of those large marks of interrogation which lend vigour and snap to modern ic art。 Certainly such a mark of interrogation would have summed up his feelings exactly。 Of what was taking place he had not the remotest notion。 All he knew was that for some inexplicable reason his quarry had e to a halt and seemed to have settled down for an indefinite stay。 Voices came to him in an indistinguishable murmur； intensely irritating to a conscientious tracker。 One of Fenimore Cooper's Indiansnotably Chingachgook； if； which seemed incredible； that was really the man's namewould have crept up without a sound and heard what was being said and got in on the ground floor of whatever plot was being hatched。 But experience had taught Mr Pickering that； superior as he was to Chingachgook and his friends in many ways； as a creeper he was not in their class。 He weighed thirty or forty pounds more than a first…class creeper should。 Besides； creeping is like golf。 You can't take it up in the middle forties and expect to pete with those who