"It seems a dear, quaint little dwelling," said Anstice, hardly knowing what to say; "and as for your church, the age of it alone is entrancing. It is like a nest of tranquillity amongst the trees." "I believe it's one of the smallest churches in England," said the girl indifferently, "and the vicarage suits it. There isn't room to swing a cat in it! But it's big enough for my uncle. He lives in his study all day." "And do you live alone with him? It must be dreary for you in the winter." "I came here when I was seventeen, with my mother. My father was killed in the War just before Armistice Day, and we had very little money, and she was delicate and did not like the London fogs. I was at school at St. Paul's; I meant to teach, but my mother needed me, and I could not leave her. She was all I had, and we loved each other. She liked the quiet and peace of this, but she only lived two years after we came, and then I felt desperate, but I did not like leaving uncle. He is old and not very strong and very absent-minded." "And now he relies upon me for everything, but it is stagnation! I don't know why I'm telling all this to a stranger. It's your face which encourages me. I never talk to people of my own class. I'm sick of the tourists. And I know no one—only the farmers and a few of the cottagers, and I've used them up long ago. I'm getting desperate, for the summer soon goes, and the rain begins, and the mist and the gales and I'm stifled! Shut into that little hole of a vicarage, without any hope or chance of escape!" They were walking towards the lake as they talked, and the girl waved her hand towards the mountains that seemed to tower above them. "Those are my enemies," she said; "I have learnt to hate them. They're grim sentinels between me and the world. They're crushing the life out of me. I rebelled at first, but I am past caring now." "But this is all wrong," said Anstice; "if you feel like this, surely your uncle won't wish to keep you?" "I am his housekeeper. We have only a rough girl to do the charing. Mother made me promise not to leave him. I think she did not know how utterly lonely it would be for me without her. He was her only brother. As long as he lives, I must live here with him. It's a gloomy, eerie place, this head of the lake! Only the yews seem to flourish, and they're trees of death, that's what I call them. Let me grumble on, it does me good. You will go your way and forget all about me." "No, I can't do that," said Anstice firmly; "we have been drawn together for some good purpose. Are you a good walker?" "Yes, I have to be. We keep no car—no trap, not even a boat. Uncle Edgar is quite content to trot round to his parishioners on his own feet. He is writing some theological book which will never be published, but it keeps him busy and content."