“So my father went to work in the Roman mines at Cold Harbour; for a new company had been started that was reclaiming the sublimated lead that had been left in the Romans’ flues. And there, as a little boy, I used to carry him his dinner, through the heather, over the side of Axdown. You’ll see Axdown for yourself to-morrow: a great bow of a hill. There used to be a pair of ravens that built there. I’ve seen them rising in great wide circles. They seemed very big to me. I was almost frightened of them; and when I found the skeleton of a sheep one day on the top of Axdown under the barrows, I made sure that the ravens had killed it. “I suppose I was a pretty intelligent boy. I know that the men at the workings by Cold Harbour, where I took father’s dinner, used to joke with me a good deal. They used to like the way in which I hit back at them with my tongue. Father didn’t take any notice of it. He was always the same dark, silent man, with very few words, and no feelings, as you’d imagine, except the violent passions into which he would burst out when he’d been drinking. He didn’t often drink, though. He was a good man, Eddie. A good man. . . . And so I myself came to work in the mines.” “I can’t believe it, you know, father. It’s so unlike you . . . and mother.” “Of course it was long before I knew your mother. And it does seem funny, looking back on it. I’m very glad now, mind you, that I had the experience. It’s a fine thing for any man at some time of his life to have had to face the necessity of earning his living by the use of his hands. You’ll never know what that means, I suppose. It’s a pity. . . . “Well, while I was working at Cold Harbour, my mother died. I forgot to tell you that Grannie had died some years before, and her cottage under Silbury had been left empty—there was no one living in Highberrow to fill it—and was already tumbling into ruins. I haven’t told you about your grandmother—my mother. I don’t know that I can tell you much. I think she was in some ways a little hard. I don’t know. . . . I thought the world of her, and perhaps it was my father’s difficult nature that made her seem harder than she was. Besides, being brought up with Grannie, I was a sort of stranger to her. I don’t know how father came across her. There’s no doubt about she was a superior woman. If you’re still feeling a little sore about your social origin, Eddie, you can console yourself with the fact that she had a cousin who was a solicitor—or was it a solicitor’s clerk?—somewhere near London. At any rate, poor soul, she died. She was ill for several months, and I, being the youngest, had to stay at home and nurse her. It was in that way that I met Dr. Marshall. . . .