“Yes,” Frances said, glad of the change of topic. “I realize that.” “Do you? How?” Again that peremptory, challenging look met hers. But she answered him with absolute simplicity. On this point at least she felt no qualms. “On account of your mother,” she said. “I guessed that.” His face changed, softening magically. “Yes, my mother,” he said. “But what made you guess it?” “It just came to me,” she said. “I knew you must be fond of someone.” He looked away from her to a gap of blue distance in front of them, and for a few seconds there was silence between them. Then: “Thank you for saying that,” he said, “and for thinking it. You have an extraordinary insight. Do you read everyone’s motives in this way? Or is it only mine?” There was a hint of melancholy in the question, as though he invited ridicule to cover an unacknowledged pathos. But Frances did not answer it, for she had no answer ready. She felt as if in his silence he had lifted the veil and given her a glimpse of his lonely soul. She saw him as it were surrounded by a great solitude which she could not cross. And so she turned away. “I am not a great reader of character,” she said. “Only I know that there is only one way of turning our stones into bread. And if we don’t find it, we starve.” “Yes, starve!” He repeated the word with his eyes still upon the blue distance. “I’m used to starving,” he said slowly. “It’s a sort of chronic state with me.” The sound of the reaping-machine came whirring through the sunlit silence, and the man pulled himself together with a gesture of impatience. “Well, I suppose we must go. You have seen the Stones, and I hope you are satisfied.” “I am glad you brought me,” she said. “But I don’t think I shall come again.” He looked at her, and she thought there was a hint of relief on his face. “You have seen all there is to see,” he said. “I think you are wise.” He mounted into the cart beside her and walked the horse forward over the grass. “There is little Ruth,” said Frances. The child had come suddenly into view from behind one of the great stones, moving as was her wont lightly and fearlessly, her face upturned. She was carrying a small bunch of harebells, and as she came towards them she stooped and felt among the grass for more. Her soft, chirruping song rose up like the humming of a fairy. Finding some of the wiry stalks she sought, she knelt down in the sunshine to gather them. “How happy she is!” whispered Frances. The man said nothing. He walked the horse straight up to the little kneeling figure and reined in beside it. “Is that you, Uncle Arthur?” said little Ruth. “Yes,” he said. “Come here to me and I will take you back to the corn-field!” She got up and came to him. He stooped and grasped her shoulder, guiding her to the step. “Is Miss Thorold there?” said the child. “Yes, darling. I am here,” Frances answered, and made room for her in the seat.