He had several occasions for renewing his observations; for Mr. Southwode's condition of weakness detained him yet several days at the farm-house. He established for himself during this interval the character he had gained of a silent man; however, one afternoon he broke through his habit and spoke. It was the day before he intended to continue his journey. Rotha had gone to the field with her father, to have some fun in the hay; Mr. Southwode and Mrs. Carpenter sat together in the wide farmhouse hall. The day being very warm, they had come to the coolest place they could find. Mrs. Carpenter was busy with mending clothes; her guest for some time sat idly watching her; admiring, as he had done often already, the calm, sweet strength of this woman's face. What a beauty she must have been once, he thought; all the lines were finely drawn and delicate; and the soul that looked forth of them was refined by nature and purified by patience. Mr. Southwode had something to say to her this afternoon, and did not know how to begin. "Your husband seems to have a fine farm here," he remarked. "It is, I believe," Mrs. Carpenter answered, without lifting her eyes from her darning. "He took me over some of his ground this morning. He knows what to do with it, too. It is in good order." "It would be in good order, if my husband had his full strength." "Yes. I am sorry to see he has not." "Did he say anything to you about it?" the wife enquired presently, with a smothered apprehensiveness which touched her companion. He answered however indifferently in the negative. "I don't like his cough, though," he went on after a little interval. "Have you had advice for him?" There was a startled look of pain in the eyes which again met him, and the lips closed upon one another a little more firmly. They always had a firm though soft set, and the corners of the mouth told of long and patient endurance. Now the face told of another stab of pain, met and borne. "He would not call in anybody," she said faintly. That was not what Mr. Southwode had meant to talk about, though closely connected with the subject of his thoughts. He would try again. "I owe you a great debt of gratitude, Mrs. Carpenter," he said after a long enough pause had ensued, and beginning on another side. "I presume you have saved my life." "I am very glad we have been able to do anything," she said quietly. "There is no need of thanks." "But I must speak them, or I should not deserve to live. It astonishes me, how you should be so kind to an entire stranger." "That's why you needed it," she said with a pleasant smile. "Yes, yes, my need is one thing; that was plain enough; but if everybody took care of other people's needs--Why, you have done everything for me, night and day, Mrs. Carpenter. You have not spared yourself in the least; and I have given a deal of trouble."