“You mustn’t attempt too much at a time,” he said. “Square told me so only two days ago. You are not wanting to leave us yet, are you?” The direct question, coming from him, took her by surprise. Her vision was steadying, but an odd flutter of agitation still possessed her. She did not know how to answer him for the moment; then the memory that he wanted her gone came upon her, and she braced herself to reply. “I must go—yes. I have been here much too long as it is.” His fingers left her wrist, but he still stood above her motionless, looking straight down at her, yet not as if he watched her, but rather as if he debated something with himself. “May I ask a question?” he said suddenly. She felt herself colour. There was something unexpected about this man. She wondered why he embarrassed her so. She tried to smile in answer to his words though his expression was grave to sombreness. “If it isn’t too hard a one,” she said. “It’s only this,” he said, in his quiet, rather ponderous fashion. “Have you anywhere to go to—if you leave us?” “Oh, that!” said Frances, and knew she had betrayed herself before she could formulate her reply. “Why, yes,—of course I have.” “Why ‘of course’?” he said. She hesitated. “Because—well, every woman has somewhere to go to. I have—a brother.” “A brother?” he said. She found herself explaining further as if under compulsion. “Yes, in the North,—a business man. He would take me in.” “Have you any intention of asking him to?” Somehow the question stung her. It was so direct, so unerring, like the flick of a whip-lash. She dropped her eyes before his look. “I can do so,” she said with pride. “Do you intend to?” he insisted. She did not answer. Before that straight regard she could not lie. He waited a moment or two, then to her surprise he sat down upon the grass by her side. “Ruth,” he said to the blind child standing silently beside him. “Go to the house and find my tobacco-pouch! Maggie is in the dairy. She will know where it is.” Ruth went with instant obedience, and Arthur Dermot took off his cap and laid it on the grass. “Now, Miss Thorold,” he said, “I am going to ask you another question.” He spoke with the authority of a man not accustomed to be gainsaid, and again that odd quiver as of apprehension went through her. She lay in silence, waiting. When he spoke again, she knew he was looking at her, but she did not meet his look. “I want to know,” he said, “what it was that scared you so up at the Stones the night you came to us.” “Ah!” She made a quick movement of protest. “I can’t tell you that,” she said. “You don’t want to tell me,” he said. “I can’t tell you,” she said again. He was silent for a space, but she was conscious of his eyes still upon her, and she had an urgent desire to escape from their scrutiny. They were so intent, so unsparing, so full of resolution. “Someone was up there with you,” he said suddenly.