Hannah Cox was kneeling on the stone floor. Her ear was close to the crack of the door which led into the boat-house. Her face, half turned from it, was set in a strange, concentrated passion of listening; her lips were parted, her eyes half closed. She took no more notice of Hamel or his arrival than if he had been some useless piece of furniture. Every faculty seemed to be absorbed in that one intense effort of listening. There was no need of her out-stretched finger. Hamel fell in at once with a mood so mesmeric. He, too, listened. The small clock which she had brought with her from the village ticked away upon the mantelpiece. The full sea fell with placid softness upon the high beach outside. Some slight noise of cooking came from the stove. Save for these things there was silence. Yet, for a space of time which Hamel could never have measured, they both listened. When at last the woman rose to her feet, Hamel, finding words at last, was surprised to find that his throat was dry. “What is it, Mrs. Cox?” he asked. “Why were you listening there?” Her face was absolutely expressionless. She was busying herself now with a small saucepan, and her back was turned towards him. “I spend my life, sir,” she said, “listening and waiting. One never knows when the end may come.” “But the boat-house,” Hamel objected. “No one has been in there his morning, have they?” “Who can tell?” she answered. “He could go anywhere when he chose, or how he chose--through the keyhole, if he wanted.” “But why listen?” Hamel persisted. “There is nothing in there now but some odds and ends of machinery.” She turned from the fire and looked at him for a moment. Her eyes were colourless, her tone unemotional. “Maybe! There’s no harm in listening.” “Did you hear anything which made you want to listen?” “Who can tell?” she answered. “A woman who lives well-nigh alone, as I live, in a quiet place, hears things so often that other folk never listen to. There’s always something in my ears, night or day. Sometimes I am not sure whether it’s in this world or the other. It was like that with me just then. It was for that reason I listened. Your luncheon’s ready, sir.” Hamel walked thoughtfully back into his sitting-room. He seated himself before a spotless cloth and watched Hannah Cox spread out his well-cooked, cleanly-served meal. “If there’s anything you want, sir,” she said, “I shall hear you at a word. The kitchen door is open.” “One moment, Mrs. Cox.” She lingered there patiently, with the tray in her hand. “There was some sound,” Hamel continued, “perhaps a real sound, perhaps a fancy, which made you go down on your knees in the kitchen. Tell me what it was.” “The sound I always hear, sir,” she answered quietly. “I hear it in the night, and I hear it when I stand by the sea and look out. I have heard it for so many years that who can tell whether it comes from this world or the other--the cry of men who die!”