"He bears it as only he can bear," she said. "You'd think he was a stone if you didn't know. Grinds on with his life--the Lord knows at what cost to himself. He lighted his pipe this morning. It went out again, I grant you; still it shows the nature of him, that he could light it. Not a word will he say about our dear blessed boy--done to death--that's what I call it--by that picture-faced bitch to Undershaugh." "You mustn't talk like that, Susan. 'Twas not the girl's fault, but her cruel misfortune. Be honest, there's a good creature. She's suffered more than any but her mother knows. No, no, no--not Cora. The terrible truth is that Humphrey's self is responsible for all. If he'd met Mrs. Lintern's daughter in a kinder spirit, she'd never have feared to come into the family and never have thrown over poor Mark. But he terrified her to death nearly, and she felt a marriage with such a man's son could never come to good." Mrs. Hacker was not following the argument. Her mind had suffered a deep excitation and shock, and she wandered from the present to the past. "The ups and downs of it--the riddle of it--the indecency of it--life in general, I mean! To think that me and you not above a week agone were dancing afore the public eye--Father Christmas and Mother Dorothy. How the people laughed! And now----" She stared stupidly before her and suddenly began repeating her part in the play. "Here come I, old Mother Dorothy, Fat, fair, plump and commodity. My head is big, my body is bigger: Don't you think I be a handsome old figure?" "And the quality said I might have been made for the part!" "You're light-headed along of all this cruel grief," answered Nathan. "Go in out of this cold wind, Susan, and drink a stiff drop of spirits. I suppose my brother is up on the tor?" "Yes, he's up there; you can see him from the back garden. Looks like an image--a stone among the stones, or a crow among the crows. But the fire's within. He was terrible fond of Mark really, though he'd rather have had red-hot pincers nip him than show it." "I'll go up," declared the innkeeper. He climbed where his brother appeared against the skyline and found Humphrey bleakly poised, standing on a stone and looking into the eye of the east wind. His coat was flapping behind him; his hat was drawn over his eyes; his nose was red and a drop hung from it. He looked like some great, forlorn fowl perched desolate and starving here. "Forgive me for coming, brother, but I hadn't the heart to keep away. You wouldn't see me before; but you must now. Get down to the lew side of these stones. I must speak to you." "I'm trying to understand," answered the other calmly. "And the east wind's more like to talk sense to me than ever you will."