For a long time the thought of Forrest had seemed to bring him near. She felt his presence; it was as though he stood there, behind her on the ledge, watching her with clear, reproachful, almost frowning gaze. The color surged and went in her face; her shoulders shook, and the letter, which she had crushed in her hand, dropped from her relaxed hold. The torrent swirled it away. "I don’t blame you," she said, and to her halting phrases the cataract stormed accompaniment, "Oh, I don’t blame you. I know how you have fought it—stamped it down. But you can’t kill it—it springs and springs again; it can’t die. I know—I know. I’ve been through it—all." At last she walked back through the meadow. The sun was dropping behind the purpling hills; birds piped night calls in the thicket; one of the Jerseys was lowing at the bars. "Patience, Blossom, patience," she said, "Now, then, slowly, slowly." She laid her hand lightly on the tawny neck, and the cow picked her way over the lowered rails and turned towards the corral. It was there, milking Blossom, that the Judge discovered her, when he came from the stable where Mose had helped him put up his horse. He did not speak directly, but stopped, leaning a little on the fence, his arms resting on the top bar, and watched her. There was in his eyes the look of a man who has found at last what he has long desired. She did not yet know that he was there. Her shoulder was turned to him and she was looking up absently to a high spur of the slope. "My dear," he said, "My dear—it is a long time since I climbed a fence, but no doubt I could do it unless there is a gate." She started and gave him a quick, backward glance, while her hand sent a swifter stream into the pail. Then she sprang up from her stool and hurried smiling to the rails. But, presently, when she had shown him the little wicket, screened by two infant alders, the Judge found himself squeezing through, to wait for the almost filled pail. "It isn’t nearly as difficult as it looks," she said, and her eyes challenged him over her shoulder. "No, thank you," he answered laughing, "I like, better, just looking on." But he lifted the brimming pail and carried it, not without difficulty, to the house. He set it down in the living-room and stepped back into the cool doorway, where he stood, fanning himself slowly, with his hat, and surveying the interior with growing approval. Mose was already seated in the chimney corner, turning the roasting grouse on their spit. At the same time he tended a savory haunch of venison, while the old madame divided her attention between a boiling pot on the crane, and a tin reflector set in front of the fire. "You see it’s all very primitive," said Alice. The Judge’s eyes rested on the spit with manifest satisfaction. "It is the only right way to cook a bird," he answered. "Nawitka," said Mose gravely. "But de mowitch, too, dis tam de year, ees gre’t."