To this very obvious remark she returned no answer, a stone to which she had come in her digging seeming to absorb all her attention. She unearthed the obstacle with some difficulty, seized it with her rough hands, and threw it up at the feet of the stranger, who watched her with that idle interest which labor begets in the unconcerned observer. "Do you always do this work?" Farnsworth asked at length. "Yes," was the laconic return. "But the old sexton,--Joe Grimwet,--is he gone?" The woman looked up with some interest at this indication that the other had some previous acquaintance with Kempton and its people. She did not, however, stop her labor, as a man would probably have stopped. "Yes," she said. "He's buried over yonder,--there beyond the burdocks." The gentleman changed his position uneasily. Some subtile disquietude had arisen to disturb his serenity. The wind rustled mournfully among the dry leaves, the pebbles rattled against the spade of the grave-digger, increasing the sombreness of a scene which might easily affect one at all susceptible to outward influences. In such an atmosphere a sensitive nature not unfrequently experiences a certain feeling of unreality, as if dealing with scenes and creatures of the imagination rather than with actualities; and Farnsworth, whatever the delicacy of his mental fibre, was conscious of such a sense at this moment. He hastened to speak again, as if the sound of his own voice were needed to assure him of the genuineness of the place and scene. "But how long has he been dead?" he asked. "And his daughter; what became of her?" The grave-digger straightened herself to her full height; brushing back her wind-blown hair with one grimy hand, she raised her face so that her deep-set eyes were fixed upon the questioner's face. "So you knew Delia Grimwet?" she said. "When was you here before? It'd go hard for you to make her out now, if it's long since." "Is she here still?" Farnsworth persisted, ignoring her question. "Yes," the sexton replied, suddenly sinking back into the unfinished grave as a frightened animal might retreat into its den. "Yes; she lives in the old place." "Alone?" "Her and the boy." He recoiled a step, as if the mention of a child startled or repelled him. Yet to a close observer it might have seemed as if he were making an effort to press her with further questions. If so his courage did not prove sufficient, and he watched in silence while the woman before him went steadily on with her arduous work. Presently, however, he advanced again toward the edge of the pit, which was rapidly approaching completion under her familiar labor. "Should I find her at home at this time?" he inquired. "Or would she be out at work?" The woman started and crouched, much as if she had received or expected a blow. "She's out, most likely," she replied in a muffled voice. "She'll be home along about sundown."