"Ever since my father retired from Boston to purchase this hill and the wilderness surrounding it," she went on, "ever since he came here to live a hermit's life--a life devoted solely to painting landscapes--I also have lived here all alone with him. "That is three years, now. And from the very beginning--from the very first day of our arrival, somehow or other I was conscious that there was something abnormal about this corner of the world." She bent forward, lowering her voice a trifle: "Have you noticed," she asked, "that so many things seem to be _circular_ out here?" "Circular?" I repeated, surprised. "Yes. That crater is circular; so is the bottom of it; so is this plateau, and the hill; and the forests surrounding us; and the mountain ranges on the horizon." "But all this is natural." "Perhaps. But in those woods, down there, there are, here and there, great circles of crumbling soil--_perfect_ circles a mile in diameter." "Mounds built by prehistoric man, no doubt." She shook her head: "These are not prehistoric mounds." "Why not?" "Because they have been freshly made." "How do you know?" "The earth is freshly upheaved; great trees, partly uprooted, slant at every angle from the sides of the enormous piles of newly upturned earth; sand and stones are still sliding from the raw ridges." She leaned nearer and dropped her voice still lower: "More than that," she said, "my father and I both have seen one of these huge circles _in the making_!" "What!" I exclaimed, incredulously. "It is true. We have seen several. And it enrages father." "Enrages?" "Yes, because it upsets the trees where he is painting landscapes, and tilts them in every direction. Which, of course, ruins his picture; and he is obliged to start another, which vexes him dreadfully." I think I must have gaped at her in sheer astonishment. "But there is something more singular than that for you to investigate," she said calmly. "Look down at that circle of steam which makes a perfect ring around the bowl of the crater, halfway down. Do you see the flicker of fire under the vapour?" "Yes." She leaned so near and spoke in such a low voice that her fragrant breath fell upon my cheek: "In the fire, under the vapours, there are little animals." "What!!" "Little beasts live in the fire--slim, furry creatures, smaller than a weasel. I've seen them peep out of the fire and scurry back into it.... _Now_ are you sorry that I wrote you to come? And will you forgive me for bringing you out here?" An indescribable excitement seized me, endowing me with a fluency and eloquence unusual: "I thank you from the bottom of my heart!" I cried; "--from the depths of a heart the emotions of which are entirely and exclusively of scientific origin!" In the impulse of the moment I held out my hand; she laid hers in it with charming diffidence.