The Heather-Moon

								

lurked under cover of the convenient, thick, and well-placed shadow
behind the grandfather clock on the landing.
It was not autumn now, which was part of the mystery, after these
endless years of routine (they seemed endless to Barrie at eighteen),
and she would certainly have missed the event had this not been her
keyhole hour.
Somehow she had become aware--through heredity and race memory, no
doubt--that looking through keyholes was caddish, a trick unworthy of
any lady who was at heart a gentleman. But there are exceptions to all
keyholes, and this was one, because, as none save ghosts and fairies
lived or moved behind it in the garret, there was nobody to spy upon.
You looked through to stimulate the romance in your starved soul and
save it from death by inanition, because if romance died, then indeed
the Outer Life at Hillard House would be no longer bearable.
Barrie paid her respects to the keyhole o' mornings, for two reasons.
The first and commonplace reason was because Mrs. Muir was busy
downstairs and had no eye to spare to see whether other eyes were glued
to the wrong places. The second and more charming reason was because in
the morning the golden haze floated behind the keyhole like shimmering
water with the sun shining deep into it. By afternoon there was nothing
left to peer into but cold gray shadow, which meant that the fairies and
other inhabitants were not at home.
Mrs. Muir's motive for visiting the garret out of season was a simple
one, but it was well that Barrie did not know this, for it was not at
all interesting, and would have broken the music, thrown cold water on
the thrill. Moths, no respecters of persons or judges of high religious
reputations, had dared to nest in Mrs. MacDonald's best black cashmere
dress, which had not been worn and would not be worn, except on great
occasions, until next season, and had mechanically reduced it to the
rate of second best. Moth-powder and moth-balls were exhausted in
downstairs regions, but there was a store of both in the garret; and in
her annoyance at having to ascend at an unprecedented time, and her
vexation at an accident such as must happen in the best regulated
families, Mrs. Muir had hurriedly returned with the wanted box,
forgetting to lock the door.
Barrie could not be sure that the housekeeper was not even now in the
garret; but she had to find out: and the awful thrill of uncertainty
made her next step a high adventure, the adventure of her life. It was a
step onto the garret stairs, and though it meant dangers of all sorts,
she risked them every one, and closed the door behind her. You see, if
she had not done this, any person passing along the landing--a person
such as Grandma, or Janet Hepburn--would at once have seen the streak of
gold, a mere yellow crack to them, and then and there would have arisen
a clamour for the key.
Even with the door closed the risk remained in a lesser degree. Mrs.
Muir, if she were not at this moment in the garret, might suddenly