As for the man, he stood quite still, one hand on the plough, the other lifting his wide hat by the crown in greeting, an act of politeness no country yokel would have vouchsafed. What he said she could not hear, but the single glance he gave her, though interrupted by the shadow of his hat, tinged with a swift respect instead of lingering curiosity, she read as an appeal for fair trial and mercy for his awkwardness, so her outstretched hand dropped to the stone wall that divided them. Leaning on it, she asked some trifling questions that could be answered by a brief yes and no, to put him at his ease, then strolled on again along the field edges, only half listening to what Enoch Fenton said of the best rotation of crops for soil somewhat overfarmed, and half busy with her own thoughts, quickened in a dozen different ways by the impulse of spring. “New man don’t seem sociably inclined to women folks,” said the deacon, with a chuckle; “funny he should be took that way too! Most as dumb and offish as Silent Stead up there on Windy Hill, though Stead’s thawed out considerable toward ’em, ain’t he, since you folks come here?” he added, in a persuasive tone intended to open further possibilities of conversation. “Oh, that is not because we are women folks,” answered Brooke, simply, smiling at the old man’s eagerness; “it is also because of Dr. Russell, who introduced us. We are strangers, and lonely like himself, and you know he is teaching my brother, so that he may not wholly lose sight of college, and of course we are very grateful for that.” “Want ter know!” was the enigmatical reply, the non-committal answer of the countryman, given as it always is with the falling inflection, though the words imply a question. As they turned again toward the cross-road, the head of a man and horse could be seen above the leafless wild hedge that covered the fence. It was Robert Stead, and as he caught sight of Brooke, he pulled some letters from his saddle-bag and waved them toward her. “As you’re likely to have company home, I reckon I’ll cut across lots,” said Enoch Fenton, dryly, noticing her eagerness, for letters always opened a realm of possibility, while the deacon’s query about Keith West’s marriage reminded Brooke that she had not heard from the prospective bride for nearly a month, and so she had unconsciously hurried her steps. When she reached the bars (four rough chestnut poles held by old horseshoes driven into the posts like staples,—the relic of an old country tradition to keep the distemper from the cattle pastured therein), Stead had already dismounted, and stood waiting for her, and saying, “Letters first,” handed her the package—six in all: two for her mother, one being in the writing of Mr. Dean, and one of the lawyer; one from Lucy; two in strange hands, and the last addressed in the square, upright characters that she had seen once before, this also readdressed by Charlie Ashton.