‘You are sufficiently yourself to remain alone for a few minutes,’ she said, stood up, and left the room. She had the management of the house, and, indeed, of the farm on her hands; her usual assistant in setting the labourers their work, old Christopher Davy, was ill with rheumatism. This affair had happened at an untoward moment, but is it not always so? A full hour had elapsed before Miss Jordan returned. Then she saw that the convalescent’s eyes were closed. He was probably again asleep, and sleep was the best thing for him. She reseated herself by his bedside, and resumed her knitting. A moment after she was again aware that his eyes were on her. She had herself watched him so intently whilst he was asleep that a smile came involuntarily to her lips. She was being repaid in her own coin. The smile encouraged him to speak. ‘How long have I been here?’ ‘Four days.’ ‘Have I been very ill?’ ‘Yes, insensible, sometimes rambling.’ ‘What made me ill? What ails my head?’ He put his hand to the bandages. ‘You have had a fall from your horse.’ He did not speak for a moment or two. His thoughts moved slowly. After a while he asked, ‘Where did I fall?’ ‘On the moor—Morwell Down.’ ‘I can remember nothing. When was it?’ ‘Four days ago.’ ‘Yes—you have told me so. I forgot. My head is not clear, there is singing and spinning in it. To-day is——?’ ‘To-day is Monday.’ ‘What day was that—four days ago?’ ‘Thursday.’ ‘Yes, Thursday. I cannot think to reckon backwards. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday. I can go on, but not backward. It pains me. I can recall Thursday.’ He sighed and turned his head to the wall. ‘Thursday night—yes. I remember no more.’ After a while he turned his head round to Barbara and asked, ‘Where am I now?’ ‘At Morwell House.’ He asked no more questions for a quarter of an hour. He was taking in and turning over the information he had received. He lay on his back and closed his eyes. His face was very pale, like marble, but not like marble in this, that across it travelled changes of expression that stirred the muscles. Do what she would Barbara could not keep her eyes off him. The horrible mystery about the man, the lie given to her thoughts of him by his face, forced her to observe him. Presently he opened his eyes, and met hers; she recoiled as if smitten with a guilty feeling at her heart. ‘You have always been with me whilst I was unconscious and rambling,’ he said earnestly. ‘I have been a great deal with you, but not always. The maid, Jane, and an old woman who comes in occasionally to char, have shared with me the task. You have not been neglected.’ ‘I know well when you have been by me—and when you have been away. Sometimes I have felt as if I lay on a bank with wild thyme under me——’ ‘That is because we put thyme with our linen,’ said the practical Barbara.