“It’s past my understanding,” Michael admitted, “and I’ve thought and wondered over it until my mind was all at sea. I’m not of her kind, so it’s a puzzle that I can’t solve. It has something to do with her old father, and that machine he is making, that far I have got, but no farther. He is a clever one, the old man; he has been famous once and I’ll wager you, when that piece of work is done, he will make the world talk of him again. But there’s something wrong and if one but knew what it was, maybe it could be put right. When I knew them first they were all so happy, living there in the big house at the summit of the hill, they seemed to have everything in life there was to wish for, but since then the house has burned and Mr. Ted has gone away to the wars, and there’s things gone badly awry. Miss Miranda doesn’t pretend that this big garden and these ducks and hens are here for her own pleasure, she owns that she must have the money that she makes by them, but it’s my belief that not even you and I know how much she needs it.” His damp pipe, rebellious at last, refused to be rekindled, which delayed him for a long minute. “She has cut herself off from most of her old friends,” he went on, when he was once more puffing vigorously, “for fear they might be asking questions or offering help in a way that would hurt her. She is too proud to endure either. But—” he raised his little gray eyes and looked at Betsey keenly, “but you’re of a different sort, the sort that she does not fear and that can be a true friend to her none the less. She is fond of you, I’ve seen that in these days you have worked with her in the garden. Be good to her, Miss Betsey, and stay near to her. Find out her trouble if you can and help her. For it’s as true as that there are Saints in Heaven, it’s help she needs.” He got up as though all that he had been saying had led up to this and now he had finished. “But—” gasped Betsey, “but, please tell me first—” His square jaw shut so firmly that she knew there was no use in going on. The strange mood of fluent speech had left him. Pocketing his pipe and pulling his wet hat down over his forehead, he stumped off down the muddy furrow, never looking back. The rain had ceased entirely now and the sun had come breaking through the clouds with that brilliant clearness that often follows a storm. It made the drenched green rows glisten and the new corn, bowing before the wind, sparkle and drop jewels as the gusts passed by. Betsey slowly lifted one heavy foot out of the mud and then the other, and walked very thoughtfully up the path.