"I'm going to Witchend again for the day. Mrs Morton asked me last night. You don't mind, do you, Daddy?"

"The Mortons are very kind to you, my dear, and if the weather holds you will have a good day. A few more frosts and we shall be able to invite them all to skate on the water here. Breakfast in ten minutes."

When Peter came down the sun was high enough to shine in through the kitchen windows and set all the brass and copper and china plates gleaming. It was David Morton who had once said that the Hatchholt kitchen reminded him of a lighthouse because everything was so bright and clean.

After she had helped her father wash up Peter ran out to find Sally, her pony. Putting her fingers to her mouth, she whistled shrill and clear, and Sally came trotting over to her and nuzzled for the potato or carrot which she knew her mistress was hiding in her pocket. Sally was not a show pony and not even very good looking, but she was faithful, intelligent, and almost tireless in the hill country, and Peter could do anything with her.

When the pony was saddled and tied to the gate-post, Peter ran in for her gloves and two extra jerseys, for although the sun was well up the sky now, it was still bitterly cold. The underneath jersey was as blue as the shirt she always wore with her jodhpurs, but the top jersey with its rolled collar was scarlet. Mrs Morton had knitted this for Peter and given it to her for Christmas.

"When will you be back?" Mr Sterling asked plaintively as his daughter swung into the saddle.

"Not to dinner, Dad... Tea, I expect... Expect me when you see me, and don't worry. 'Bye!"

As she rode down the winding valley she knew so well, she noticed how on one side the bracken glowed golden in the sunshine, while on the other the frost powdered the brittle fronds which still stood in cold shadow. Sally could have picked her way blindfold down the stony track, so Peter let her make her own pace while she flicked back her fair plaits and whistled to greet another lovely day.

One more turn between the enfolding hills and Peter knew she would see the track running off to the right which led to the next valley called Dark Hollow and thence on to Witchend. As Sally stepped delicately over the brook which just here ran across the path, her ears went forward. Peter checked her own whistle, wondering what the pony had heard. Then she laughed and touched Sally's sides with her heels, as sweet and clear through the still air came the haunting cry of the lapwing... "Peeeewit! Peeee-wit!"

Peter knew whom she would see when they turned the corner.