He went to see the aconites, but they were cold, and made him shiver. It was warm innocence he wanted, not the purity which numbed; and, down below, the slopes were naked, the path rustled with dead oakleaves, and the pixy-water was in flood. The violence of the world was there, and nothing could drive it out. "Is your wife well, Oliver?" he asked. "I heard a sound in your room early this morning. It seemed to me she was ill." Vorse was uprooting bracken, which is hard labour, and he made no pause when his master spoke. "I ha' never knowed she better," he answered. "She frets less. There is a womanliness about her now which is pleasant. You, also, have very much improved. You speak to her gently. You do not drink now?" "Her made me give it up." "Had I nothing to do with it?" "No, master," said Oliver bluntly. "I couldn't ha' given it up vor yew. I did try, but I couldn't, I promised to give it up vor Sibley." "When?" "Months ago. Her told me something, and 'twur then I promised to give it up vor Sibley." "What did she tell you?" "Her had received a message from God." These were strange words from the mouth of Oliver Vorse. "Her took 'em from yew, master," he added apologetically. Searell moved aside, gazing at the black snakelike fern-roots. Then he lifted up his eyes in torment. His creatures finding in the garden what he had missed, taking his God away from him! the dull Sibley his superior, reaping the harvest that he had sown! the dull Oliver reforming for her, and not for him! And he had nothing, he was alone, as much alone in his garden as in the mission-church, obeying the printed rubrics and hearing the call, "Who told you to do this? Go out and find Me, for I am in the solitudes." "You are educating yourselves," he suggested, turning back. "You and Sibley are improving your minds by learning. I have done that much for you." Oliver said nothing, his head was down, and his hands grubbed at the great roots. There was no answer to make. It was evening, the time of restlessness, and Searell came downstairs; his study was above, and he came down only to change his rooms, to get into another atmosphere, that he might find rest for his mind. The kitchen door was open. Oliver was seated in a low chair, and Sibley was upon his knees, her arms around his neck, her head upon his shoulder. Both were motionless as if asleep. Searell went away. This time he could not interfere, and the noise of the wind became to him the cry of the wild world. "Men must be violent," it cried. "Men were made for passion," it cried; "and with the strength of the body, rather than by the gropings of the mind, they shall clear the mists from their eyes, and by means of the act of creation find Creator." IV