He rose and stood with a solemn and wide gesture of his hands. He waited a moment longer by the fire, then turned and went from this street into the next, where there lived behind his shop an old stationer and seller of books with whom he had made acquaintance. Here he begged pen and ink and paper, and when he had them, wrote, at no great length, an answer to the letter in his doublet. The next morning he left it at the house indicated, whence in due time it was taken by the serving-man and carried to Sir Richard at the castle. The letter spoke of strong gratitude, “but it befits not my calling to leave the town now.” The days lagged by in the stricken place. Then, suddenly, the black finger shot out again and touched a house beyond the midway farm, so much nearer than it to Hawthorn Village.... A week of held breath and the finger went forward again. This time it touched a house in Hawthorn. CHAPTER XII HERON’S COTTAGE IT was early spring again, and on the fruit trees pale emerald buds of yet unfolded leaves. The blackbirds came in flocks to the ploughed fields. But this year there were many fields that were not ploughed; dead men could not plough, nor those who had been to death’s door and were coming halting, halting back. Joan sat in her kitchen, on a low stool by the hearth. The room was clean, with shafts of sunlight slanting in. But her wheel was pushed back into a corner, and there lacked other signs of industry. She sat still and listless, bent over, her cheek resting upon her knees, and with her forefinger she made idle marks and letters in the ashes. The fire was smouldering out, the place seemed deadly still. There came a knock upon the door. She raised her head, and sat with a frozen look, listening. After a minute the knock was repeated. Rising, she moved noiselessly across the floor to the window, and, standing so that she could not be seen, looked out. The rigour passed from her face; she drew a breath of relief and went and opened the door. The sunshine flooded in and in the midst of it stood Aderhold. He looked at her quietly and kindly. “I came again but to see if you were well and lacked naught.” “I lack naught, thank you, sir,” said Joan. “And I am well—O me, O me, I would that it had taken me, too! O father, father!” She leaned against the wall, shaken with dry sobs. The fit did not last; she was resolute enough. She straightened herself. “I’ve done what you told me to. Yesterday I washed and cleaned and let the sun in everywhere, and burned in the room the powder you gave me. Everything is clean—and lonely. No, I don’t feel badly anywhere. I feel terribly strong, as though I would live to be an old woman.... I miss father—I miss father!”