He loitered about there like a great boy, feeling that he ought to help her, but that she did not desire his help. She seemed to have a way of taking possession of things. He could see her removing the saddle and bridle from her horse, and presently she was at the haystack gathering up some of the loose hay in her arms. She had left her brown cloak in the stable, and her blue spencer and green gown made Martin think of some rich blue flower on a green stalk. Next he saw her handling a bucket, and this time the spirit moved him. He went across to her with boyish gravity. “The spring is down the hill. I will fetch the water.” She gave him the bucket with an air of unconcern. Her hand touched his, and thrilled him to the shoulder, but she did not so much as notice that she had touched him. “Thank you, Father——” “Martin.” “Martin.” “It would be too heavy for you to carry,” he said bluntly. But she turned back into the stable as though she had not heard him. Martin Valliant went down to the spring with a most strange sense of self-dissatisfaction. He filled the bucket, balanced it on the rough stones that formed a wall around the spring, and stared at his own reflection in the water. The thought struck him that he had never looked at himself in that same way before, critically, with a personal inquisitiveness. A new self-consciousness was being born in him. He stood there brooding, wondering if other men—— Then he rebuked himself with fierce severity, and carried the bucket back up the hill. Mellis was not in the stable, so he watered the horse and stared at the saddle and bridle hanging on the wall as though they could tell him who she was and whence she came. It occurred to him that she might be hungry, and at the same time he remembered that the food in his larder was hardly fit for a sturdy beggar. This struck him as an absolute disaster. He went guiltily to his cell, and took out what by courtesy he called bread. It was of his own baking, a detestable piece of alchemy. He weighed it in his hand, and found himself thinking of the lithe way in which she moved. “They bake good bread at Paradise,” he said to himself. A quite ridiculous anger attacked him. “Mean hounds! This chapelry should be better served. A couple of mules with panniers——” He went forth, stroking his chin dubiously, and looking at the bread he carried. “Poor stuff for such a pilgrim.” The door of the little rest-house stood open, showing its oak table and benches, and the rude wooden pallets that served as beds. Mellis was standing behind the table, unpacking one of her saddle-bags. “This bread——” He felt his face growing hot. Her eyes regarded him with momentary amusement. “Is that—bread?” “It is as God made me make it.” She was smiling. His quaint humility touched her. “I will take your bread, Father Martin, and in exchange you shall eat some of mine.” She took out a manchet wrapped in white butter cloth and held it out to him.