Ruth’s face clouded a little. “I have not got over the dread of telegrams,” she said. “It takes one back to those dreadful days——” She shivered as they waited for the boy to reach them. He whistled as he came, undisturbed by much clamour from Sarah and Selina; they were old friends and he knew their ways. Ruth tore the envelope open, read the telegram, and handed it to North. “May I come?” were its three short words, and it was signed “Violet Riversley.” “You will have her?” said North. “Yes, of course.” Ruth penciled her answer on the prepaid form and handed it to the boy. North heaved a sigh of relief. “It’s good of you. You know she has not been well.” Ruth sat down and pointed to the other chair. “Tell me all you know. It may help.” North told her as well as he could. “It’s all so indefinite and intangible,” he ended. “Sometimes I wonder if her mind is affected in any way. From the shock Dick’s death was to her you know. That anyone should be afraid of Vi! It seems ridiculous, remembering what she was. She _isn’t herself_. That’s the only way I can describe it to you. Upon my word sometimes lately I’ve almost believed she’s possessed by a devil. But if she comes here—well, I don’t know why—but I think she will get all right.” Ruth did not answer at first. She sat thinking, with her elbows on her knees, her face hidden between her hands. That sense of danger to the farm had swept over her again. A warning as of something impending, brooding; looming up like a great cloud on the edge of her blue beautiful sky. Something strange and terrible was coming, coming into her life and the life of the farm. And she could not avert it, or refuse to meet it. Whatever it was it had to be met and fought. Would it be conquered? For it was strong, terribly strong, and it was helped by many. And while the moment lasted, Ruth felt small and frightened and curiously alone. “What is the matter?” asked Roger North. His voice was anxious, and when she looked up she met his eyes full of that pure and honest friendship which is so good a thing, and so rare, between man and woman. Just so might he often have looked at Dick Carey. She put out her hand to meet his, as a man might do on a bargain. “We will do our best,” she said. And she knew that WE was strong. CHAPTER XI “Yes, I am quite satisfied with things on the whole,” said Lady Condor. “Dear Roger, you need not snort. Of course _you_ are a pessimist, so nice! One of the lucky people who never expect anything, so are never disappointed. Or you always expect everything bad, is it? and you are never disappointed, because you think everything is bad! It doesn’t sound right somehow, but you know what I mean.” “Certainly! It is quite clear,” said North, with commendable gravity.