Then came a woman, and her feet pressed the grasses where Lethbridge had too often marked their passing. His face grew white, his brows frowned, and he put down his scythe and came forward. Dinah saw him, and hesitated and stood still. A little bunch of purple columbines fell out of her hand, and she bent and picked them up. “Mrs. Thorn,” said the man, “I must ax you to go around t’other way to your graves in future. I won’t have ’e trapsing about here. You’m wearing the young grass away. See how bad it do look. An’ if you’d only let your child’s grave alone, the turves would jine suent and smooth; but you’m always putting in jam-jars wi’ flowers in ’em, an’ planting things that die, an’ worrying the place so cruel that no grass can grow. I don’t want to say nought to hurt your mother’s heart, but the grave will never look seemly the way you treat it; and I shall be blamed.” She stood in a dream to hear his voice again. “If tears could make it grow—” “Tears! ’Tis a poor, feeble sorrow tears will drown.” “Men an’ women be different. Tears do soften the cutting edge to us females. But I’ll go round t’other way henceforth, Mr. Lethbridge, an’ I’m very sorry I hurt the grass and troubled you about it.” He looked hard at her, and the mists of memory rose a little from off his spirit. Life had left him petrified, while for the woman the years were full, mostly of sorrow. Her husband and child were both dead, and she lived alone. Now the man’s cold heart felt a throb. “’Tis strange to hear your voice,” he said. “Do ’e ever think ’bout the old days, ma’am, or do they hurt ’e?” “Both,” she said. “I think an’ I suffer. But I’ve lived a lifetime since then.” “Yet you ban’t very old now?” “Twenty-six, Mr. Lethbridge.” “I know that well enough—twenty-six come tenth o’ next month—July.” “I was very sorry for ’e when your old faither died.” “So was I.” “He never would speak to me after—” “Faither was a very great man for justice. An Old Testament man, you might say. ’Twas he as digged your husband’s grave, Mrs. Thorn. I couldn’t do it.” “Amos Thorn wronged you more’n ever a man wronged a man—God rest his soul.” “An’ he wronged you?” “I’ve forgived him,” she said. “He told you as I had a woman an’ a child hidden down to Newton Abbot.” “I’ve forgived him.” “An’ you could believe it?” “I’ve never forgived myself, nor never shall.” There was a silence. “Well, if you’ll keep off this here place an’ go round by the old stones there, I’ll thank you. I take a pride in the burying-ground, as be well known. The graves be wife and children to me. If you’ll look around at other churchyards, you’ll see there ban’t one this side of Plymouth that’s so trim and tidy as this.” “It’s well known; people comes from long ways off to see it. I’ll be careful in future not to do harm.”