North did not answer. He had ridden over and still held his whip in his right hand. He struck the fallen rustling leaves backwards and forwards with it as he walked, with the sharp whish expressive of annoyance and irritation. “You women are enough to drive a man crazy between you,” he said. This being plainly no answer to her question Ruth simply waited. “How often has she talked in that strain?” North asked at length. “Twice only, before to-day.” “And you—call her back to herself—as you did just now?” “Yes.” They had reached the terrace, and he stood facing her. He searched her eyes with his as he had done before. “It is not possible,” he said, but the words lacked conviction. Ruth said nothing. Her eyes were troubled, but they met his steadily. Then at last North told her. “It might have been Karl von Schäde speaking,” he said. “Come indoors,” she said gently. He followed her into the warm rose-scented room and sat down by the fire, shivering. She threw more logs upon it, and the flames shot up, many-hued, rose and amber, sea-green and heliotrope. “Tell me what you think, what you know,” said North. Ruth looked into the leaping mass of flame, her face very grave. Her voice was very low, hardly above a whisper. “I think the hatred in which Karl von Schäde passed into the next world has found a physical instrument through which to manifest here,” she said. “And that instrument is—good God!” North’s voice was sharp with horror. “It isn’t possible—the whole thing is ridiculous. But go on. I heard to-day. That has happened twice before you say. You suspected then, of course. Is there anything else?” And even as he spoke, things, little things, that Violet had said and done, came back to him. The shrinking of the dogs, his own words—“She is not herself”—took on new meaning. “There is a blight upon the farm since she came,” said Ruth. “The joy and peace are not here as they were. Perhaps you would not feel it, coming so seldom.” “Yes, I noticed it. But Violet has not made for peace of late. I thought it was just her being here.” “The children don’t care to come as they did, and there have been quarrels. The creatures are not so tame. Nothing is doing quite so well. These are little things, but taken all together they make a big whole.” “Anyway it’s not fair on you,” said North shortly. “The place is too good to spoil, and you——” In that moment, the supreme selfishness with which he and his had used her for their own benefit, as some impersonal creature, that could not be weary or worried or overtaxed, came home to him. He felt suddenly ashamed. Ruth smiled at him. “No,” she said. “The farm, I, you, are all just instruments too, as she has become, poor child. Only we are instruments on the other side.” Her voice dropped, and he leant forward to catch the words. “Dick Carey’s instruments; we cannot fail him.” “Then you think——”