Ruth sent Moira home to tea, and wandered up the hedgerow, singing to her self, while Sarah and Selina hunted busily. On the terrace she found Roger North. He looked worn and ill and bad tempered. It was some time since he had been to see her. His wife’s jealousy of Ruth had culminated in a scene and he had a dread of disturbing the peace of the farm. But the silliness of the whole thing had irritated him, and he was worried about Violet on whom the strange black cloud had descended again more noticeably than ever. Riversley had gone to Scotland, writing him a laconic note, “I’m better away—this is my address if you want me.” He drank his tea for the most part in silence, and when she had finished hers Ruth left him and went about her work. North lit his pipe and sat on smoking, while the two little dogs fought as usual for the possession of a seat in his chair, edging each other out. And presently Bertram Aurelius came staggering out of the front door and plump down on the ground before him. His red hair shone like an aureole round his head and he made queer and pleasant noises, gazing at North with friendly and evident recognition. Larry came padding softly up from his favourite haunts by the river and lay watching them with his wistful amber eyes. “Thank God for the blessed things that don’t talk,” said North. The deep lines on his face had smoothed out, his irritation subsided, he no longer felt bad tempered. When Ruth came back he smiled at her. “Thank you, I’m better,” he said. “When I arrived I wasn’t fit to ‘carry guts to a bear.’ You know Marryat’s delightful story, of course? And how is the farm?” “Can’t you feel?” She stood in the attitude of one listening. And curiously and strangely there came to North’s consciousness a something that all his senses seemed to cognize and contract at once. It was not a sound, it was not a vision, it was not a sensation, though it combined all three. Radiant and sweet and subtle, and white with glory, it came and went in a flash. Was it only a minute or eternity? “What was it?” His own voice sounded strange in his ears. Ruth smiled. “You felt it?” “I felt something. I believe you mesmerized me, you witch woman.” She shook her head. “I couldn’t make anyone feel that if I knew all the arts in the world. Only yourself can find that for you.” “What was it, anyhow?” “I think”—she paused a moment—“I think it is getting into the Unity of All.” “Where does the bad go to?” There was a moment’s silence between them. But the world of the farm was alive with sound. The pigeons’ coo, the call of the cowman to his herd, the chuckles of the baby, accompanied by the full evening chorus of birds. “There isn’t any bad in there,” said Ruth. “Your farm is bewitched,” said North. “I might be no older than Bertram Aurelius talking nonsense like this. Come down to earth, you foolish woman. There’s a telegraph boy coming up the drive.”