Thenoiseofsun—blindsbeingraisedvibratedthroughthehouse。A
feelingofterrorseizedonthegirl;helaysostill，andyetthedrawingofeachbreathwasafight。Ifshecouldonlysufferinhisplace！Shewentclose，andbentoverhim。
"It’sairwewant，bothyouandI！"hemuttered。Christianbeckonedtothenurse，andstoleoutthroughthewindow。
Aregimentwaspassingintheroad;shestoodhalf—hiddenamongstthelilacbusheswatching。Thepoplarleavesdroopedlifelessandalmostblackaboveherhead，thedustraisedbythesoldiers’feethungintheair;itseemedasifinalltheworldnofreshnessandnolifewerestirring。Thetrampoffeetdiedaway。Suddenlywithinarm’slengthofheramanappeared，hisstickshoulderedlikeasword。Heraisedhishat。
"Good—evening！Youdonotrememberme？Sarelli。Pardon！Youlookedlikeaghoststandingthere。Howbadlythosefellowsmarched！Wehang，yousee，ontheskirtsofourprofessionandcriticise;itisallwearefitfor。"Hisblackeyes，restlessandmalevolentlikeaswan’s，seemedtostabherface。"Afineevening！Toohot。Thestormiswanted;youfeelthat？Itiswearywaitingforthestorm;
butafterthestorm，mydearyounglady，comespeace。"Hesmiled，gently，thistime，andbaringhisheadagain，waslosttoviewintheshadowofthetrees。
HisfigurehadseemedtoChristianlikethesuddenvisionofathreatening，hiddenforce。Shethrustoutherhands，asthoughtokeepitoff。
Nouse;itwaswithinher，nothingcouldkeepitaway！ShewenttoMrs。Decie’sroom，whereherauntandMissNaylorwereconversinginlowtones。Toheartheirvoicesbroughtbackthetouchofthisworldofeverydaywhichhadnopartorlotintheterrifyingpowerswithinher。
DawneysleptattheVillanow。Inthedeadofnighthewasawakenedbyalightflashedinhiseyes。Christianwasstandingthere，herfacepaleandwildwithterror，herhairfallingindarkmassesonhershoulders。
"Savehim！Savehim！"shecried。"Quick！Thebleeding！"
Hesawhermuffleherfaceinherwhitesleeves，andseizingthecandle，leapedoutofbedandrushedaway。
Theinternalhaemorrhagehadcomeagain，andNicholasTreffrywaveredbetweenlifeanddeath。Whenithadceased，hesankintoasortofstupor。Aboutsixo’clockhecamebacktoconsciousness;watchinghiseyes，theycouldseeamentalstruggletakingplacewithinhim。
AtlasthesingledChristianoutfromtheothersbyasign。
"I’mbeat，Chris，"hewhispered。"Lethimknow，Iwanttoseehim。"
Hisvoicegrewalittlestronger。"IthoughtthatIcouldseeitthrough——buthere’stheend。"Heliftedhishandeversolittle，andletitfallagain。WhentoldalittlelaterthatatelegramhadbeensenttoHarzhiseyesexpressedsatisfaction。
HerrPaulcamedowninignoranceofthenight’sevents。Hestoppedinfrontofthebarometerandtappedit，remarkingtoMissNaylor:
"Theglasshasgonedownstairs;weshallhavecoolweather——itwillstillgowellwithhim！"
When，withherbrownfacetwistedbypityandconcern，shetoldhimthatitwasaquestionofhours，HerrPaulturnedfirstpurple，thenpale，andsittingdown，trembledviolently。"Icannotbelieveit，"
heexclaimedalmostangrily。"Yesterdayhewassowell！Icannotbelieveit！PoorNicholas！Yesterdayhespoketome！"TakingMissNaylor’shand，heclutcheditinhisown。"Ah！"hecried，lettingitgosuddenly，andstrikingathisforehead，"itistooterrible;onlyyesterdayhespoketomeofsherry。Istherenobody，then，whocandogood？"
"ThereisonlyGod，"repliedMissNaylorsoftly。
"God？"saidHerrPaulinascaredvoice。
"We——can——all——praytoHim，"MissNaylormurmured;littlespotsofcolourcameintohercheeks。"Iamgoingtodoitnow。"
HerrPaulraisedherhandandkissedit。
"Areyou？"hesaid;"good！Itoo。"Hepassedthroughhisstudydoor，closeditcarefullybehindhim，thenforsomeunknownreasonsethisbackagainstit。Ugh！Death！Itcametoall！Somedayitwouldcometohim。Itmightcometomorrow！Onemustpray！
Thedaydraggedtoitsend。Intheskycloudshadmustered，and，crowdingcloseononeanother，clungroundthesun，soft，thick，greywhite，likethefeathersonapigeon’sbreast。Towardseveningfainttremblingswerefeltatintervals，asfromtheshockofimmenselydistantearthquakes。
Nobodywenttobedthatnight，butinthemorningthereportwasthesame:"Unconscious——aquestionofhours。"Onceonlydidherecoverconsciousness，andthenaskedforHarz。Atelegramhadcomefromhim，hewasontheway。Towardssevenoftheeveningthelong—
expectedstormbrokeinaskylikeink。Intothevalleysandoverthecrestsofmountainsitseemedasthoughanunseenhandwerespillinggobletsofpalewine，dartingasword—bladezigzagovertrees，roofs，spires，peaks，intotheveryfirmament，whichansweredeverythrustwithgreatburstsofgroaning。JustbeyondtheverandaGretasawaglowwormshining，asitmightbeatinybeadofthefallenlightning。Soontheraincoveredeverything。Sometimesajetoflightbroughtthehilltops，towering，dark，andhard，overthehouse，todisappearagainbehindtheraindropsandshakenleaves。
Eachbreathdrawnbythestormwasliketheclashofathousandcymbals;andinhisroomMr。Treffrylayunconsciousofitsfury。
Gretahadcreptinunobserved;andsatcurledinacorner，withScruffinherarms，rockingslightlytoandfro。WhenChristianpassed，shecaughtherskirt，andwhispered:"Itisyourbirthday，Chris！"
Mr。Treffrystirred。
"What’sthat？Thunder？——it’scooler。WhereamI？Chris！"
Dawneysignedforhertotakehisplace。
"Chris！"Mr。Treffrysaid。"It’snearnow。"Shebentacrosshim，andhertearsfellonhisforehead。
"Forgive！"shewhispered;"loveme！"
Heraisedhisfinger，andtouchedhercheek。
Foranhourormorehedidnotspeak，thoughonceortwicehemoaned，andfaintlytightenedhispressureonherfingers。Thestormhaddiedaway，butveryfaroffthethunderwasstillmuttering。
Hiseyesopenedoncemore，restedonher，andpassedbeyond，intothatabyssdividingyouthfromage，convictionfromconviction，lifefromdeath。
AtthefootofthebedDawneystoodcoveringhisface;behindhimDominiquekneltwithhandsheldupwards;thesoundofGreta’sbreathing，softinsleep，roseandfellinthestillness。
XXIX
OneafternooninMarch，morethanthreeyearsafterMr。Treffry’sdeath，ChristianwassittingatthewindowofastudioinSt。John’sWood。Theskywascoveredwithsoft，highclouds，throughwhichshonelittlegleamsofblue。Nowandthenabrightshowerfell，sprinklingthetrees，whereeverytwigwascurlingupwardsasifwaitingforthegiftofitsnewleaves。Anditseemedtoherthattheboughsthickenedandbuddedunderherveryeyes;agreatconcourseofsparrowshadgatheredonthoseboughs，andkeptraisingashrillchatter。OveratthefarsideoftheroomHarzwasworkingatapicture。
OnChristian’sfacewasthequietsmileofonewhoknowsthatshehasonlytoturnhereyestoseewhatshewishestosee;ofonewhosepossessionsaresafeunderherhand。ShelookedatHarzwiththatpossessivesmile。Butasintothebrainofoneturninginhisbedgrimfancieswillsuddenlyleapupoutofwarmnothingness，sothereleapedintohermindthememoryofthatlongagodawn，whenhehadfoundherkneelingbyMr。Treffry’sbody。Sheseemedtoseeagainthedeadface，sogravelyquiet，andfurrowless。Sheseemedtoseeherloverandherselfsettingforthsilentlyalongtheriverwallwheretheyhadfirstmet;sittingdown，stillsilent，beneaththepoplar—treewherethelittlebodiesofthechafershadlainstrewnintheSpring。Toseethetreeschangingfromblacktogrey，fromgreytogreen，andinthedarkskylongwhitelinesofcloud，lightingtothesouthlikebirds;and，veryfaraway，rosypeakswatchingtheawakeningoftheearth。Andnowonceagain，afterallthattime，shefeltherspiritshrinkawayfromhis;asithadshrunkinthathour，whenshehadseemedhatefultoherself。Sherememberedthewordsshehadspoken:"Ihavenoheartleft。You’vetornitintwobetweenyou。Loveisallself——Iwantedhimtodie。"Sherememberedtootheraindropsonthevineslikeamilliontinylamps，andthethrostlethatbegansinging。Then，asdreamsdieoutintowarmnothingness，recollectionvanished，andthesmilecamebacktoherlips。
Shetookoutaletter。
"……OChris！Wearereallycoming;Iseemtobealwaystellingittomyself，andIhavetoldScruffmanytimes，buthedoesnotcare，becauseheisgettingold。MissNaylorsaysweshallarriveforbreakfast，andthatweshallbehungry，butperhapsshewillnotbeveryhungry，ifitisrough。Papasaidtome:’Jeseraiinconsolable，maisinconsolable！’ButIthinkhewillnotbe，becauseheisgoingtoVienna。Whenwearecome，therewillbenobodyatVillaRubein;AuntConstancehasgoneafortnightagotoFlorence。Thereisayoungmanatherhotel;shesayshewillbeoneofthegreatestplaywritersinEngland，andshesentmeaplayofhistoread;itwasonlyalittleaboutlove，Ididnotlikeitverymuch……OChris！IthinkIshallcrywhenIseeyou。AsIamquitegrownup，MissNaylorisnottocomebackwithme;sometimessheissad，butshewillbegladtoseeyou，Chris。SheseemsalwayssadderwhenitisSpring。TodayIwalkedalongthewall;thelittlegreenballsofwoolaregrowingonthepoplarsalready，andIsawonechafer;itwillnotbelongbeforethecherryblossomcomes;andI
feltsofunny，sadandhappytogether，andonceIthoughtthatIhadwingsandcouldflyawayupthevalleytoMeran——butIhadnone，soI
satonthebenchwherewesatthedaywetookthepictures，andI
thoughtandthought;therewasnothingcametomeinmythoughts，butallwassweetandalittlenoisy，andrathersad;itwaslikethebuzzingofthechafer，inmyhead;andnowIfeelsotiredandallmybloodisrunningupanddownme。Idonotmind，becauseIknowitistheSpring。
"Dominiquecametoseeustheotherday;heisverywell，andishalftheproprietoroftheAdlerHotel，atMeran;heisnotatalldifferent，andheaskedaboutyouandaboutAlois——doyouknow，Chris，tomyselfIcallhimHerrHarz，butwhenIhaveseenhimthistimeIshallcallhimAloisinmyheartalso。
"IhavealetterfromDr。Edmund;heisinLondon，soperhapsyouhaveseenhim，onlyhehasagreatmanypatientsandsomethathehas’hopesofkillingsoon’！especiallyoneoldlady，becausesheisalwayswantinghimtodothingsforher，andheisneversaying’No，’
sohedoesnotlikeher。Hesaysthatheisgettingold。WhenI
havefinishedthisletterIamgoingtowriteandtellhimthatperhapsheshallseemesoon，andthenIthinkhewillbeverysad。
NowthattheSpringiscometherearemoreflowerstotaketoUncleNic’sgrave，andeveryday，whenIamgone，Barbiistotakethemsothatheshallnotmissyou，Chris，becausealltheflowersIputthereareforyou。
"Iambuyingsometoyswithoutpaintonformyniece。"
"OChris！thiswillbethefirstbabythatIhaveknown。"
"Iamonlytostaythreeweekswithyou，butIthinkwhenIamoncethereIshallbestayinglonger。Isendakissformyniece，andtoHerrHarz，mylove——thatisthelasttimeIshallcallhimHerrHarz;
andtoyou，Chris，allthejoythatisinmyheart。——Yourloving"GRETA。"
Christianrose，and，turningverysoftly，stood，leaningherelbowsonthebackofahighseat，lookingatherhusband。
Inhereyestherewasaslow，clear，faintlysmiling，yetyearninglook，asthoughthisstrenuousfigurebentonitstaskwereseenforamomentassomethingapart，andnotalltheworldtoher。
"Tired？"askedHarz，puttinghislipstoherhand。
"No，it’sonly——whatGretasaysabouttheSpring;itmakesonewantmorethanonehasgot。
Slippingherhandaway，shewentbacktothewindow。Harzstood，lookingafterher;then，takinguphispalette，againbeganpainting。
Intheworld，outside，thehighsoftcloudsflewby;thetreesseemedthickeningandbudding。
AndChristianthought:
’Canweneverhavequiteenough？’
Decemberl890。
TO
MYFATHER
AMANOFDEVON
I
"MOOR，20thJuly……Itisquiethere，sleepy，rather——afarmisneverquiet;thesea，too，isonlyaquarterofamileaway，andwhenit’swindy，thesoundofittravelsupthecombe;fordistraction，youmustgofourmilestoBrixhamorfivetoKingswear，andyouwon’tfindmuchthen。
Thefarmliesinashelteredspot，scooped，sotospeak，highupthecombeside——behindisariseoffields，andbeyond，asweepofdown。
Youhavethefeelingofbeingabletoseequitefar，whichismisleading，asyousoonfindoutifyouwalk。ItistrueDevoncountry—hills，hollows，hedge—banks，lanesdippingdownintotheearthorgoinguplikethesidesofhouses，coppices，cornfields，andlittlestreamswhereverthere’saplaceforone;butthedownsalongthecliff，allgorseandferns，arewild。Thecombeendsinasandycovewithblackrockononeside，pinkishcliffsawaytotheheadlandontheother，andacoastguardstation。Justnow，withtheharvestcomingon，everythinglooksitsrichest，theapplesripening，thetreesalmosttoogreen。It’sveryhot，stillweather;thecountryandtheseaseemtosleepinthesun。Infrontofthefarmarehalf—
a—dozenpinesthatlookasiftheyhadsteppedoutofanotherland，butallroundthebackisorchardaslush，andgnarled，andorthodoxasanyonecouldwish。Thehouse，along，whitebuildingwiththreelevelsofroof，andsplashesofbrownalloverit，looksasifitmightbegrowingdownintotheearth。Itwasfreshlythatchedtwoyearsago——andthat’sallthenewnessthereisaboutit;theysaythefrontdoor，oak，withironknobs，isthreehundredyearsoldatleast。Youcantouchtheceilingswithyourhand。Thewindowscertainlymightbelarger——aheavenlyoldplace，though，withaflavourofapples，smoke，sweetbriar，bacon，honeysuckle，andage，alloverit。
TheownerisamancalledJohnFord，aboutseventy，andseventeenstoneinweight——verybig，onlonglegs，withagrey，stubblybeard，grey，wateryeyes，shortneckandpurplishcomplexion;heisasthmatic，andhasaverycourteous，autocraticmanner。HisclothesaremadeofHarristweed——exceptonSundays，whenheputsonblack——asealring，andathickgoldcablechain。There’snothingmeanorsmallaboutJohnFord;Isuspecthimofawarmheart，buthedoesn’tletyouknowmuchabouthim。He’sanorth—countrymanbybirth，andhasbeenoutinNewZealandallhislife。ThislittleDevonshirefarmisallhehasnow。Hehadalarge"station"intheNorthIsland，andwasmuchlookedupto，keptopenhouse，dideverything，asonewouldguess，inanarrow—minded，large—handedway。Hecametogriefsuddenly;Idon’tquiteknowhow。Ibelievehisonlysonlostmoneyontheturf，andthen，unabletofacehisfather，shothimself;
ifyouhadseenJohnFord，youcouldimaginethat。Hiswifedied，too，thatyear。Hepaiduptothelastpenny，andcamehome，toliveonthisfarm。Hetoldmetheothernightthathehadonlyonerelationintheworld，hisgranddaughter，wholivesherewithhim。
PasianceVoisey——oldspellingforPatience，buttheypronounce，itPash—yence——issittingoutherewithmeatthismomentonasortofrusticloggiathatopensintotheorchard。Hersleevesarerolledup，andshe’sstrippingcurrants，readyforblackcurranttea。Nowandthensherestsherelbowsonthetable，eatsaberry，poutsherlips，and，beginsagain。Shehasaround，littleface;along，slenderbody;cheekslikepoppies;abushymassofblack—brownhair，anddark—brown，almostblack，eyes;hernoseissnub;herlipsquick，red，ratherfull;allhermotionsquickandsoft。Shelovesbrightcolours。She’sratherlikealittlecat;sometimessheseemsallsympathy，theninamomentashardastortoise—shell。She’sallimpulse;yetshedoesn’tliketoshowherfeelings;Isometimeswonderwhethershehasany。Sheplaystheviolin。
It’squeertoseethesetwotogether，queerandrathersad。Theoldmanhasafiercetendernessforherthatstrikesintotheveryrootsofhim。Iseehimtornbetweenit，andhiscoldnorth—countryhorrorofhisfeelings;hislifewithherisanunconscioustorturetohim。
She’sarestless，chafingthing，demureenoughonemoment，thenflashingoutintomockingspeechesorhardlittlelaughs。Yetshe’sfondofhiminherfashion;Isawherkisshimoncewhenhewasasleep。Sheobeyshimgenerally——inawayasifshecouldn’tbreathewhileshewasdoingit。She’shadaqueersortofeducation——
history，geography，elementarymathematics，andnothingelse;neverbeentoschool;hadafewlessonsontheviolin，buthastaughtherselfmostofwhatsheknows。Sheiswellupintheloreofbirds，flowers，andinsects;hasthreecats，whofollowherabout;andisfullofpranks。Theotherdayshecalledouttome，"I’vesomethingforyou。Holdoutyourhandandshutyoureyes！"Itwasalarge，blackslug！She’sthechildoftheoldfellow’sonlydaughter，whowassenthomeforschoolingatTorquay，andmadearunawaymatchwithoneRichardVoisey，ayeomanfarmer，whomshemetinthehunting—
field。JohnFordwasfurious——hisancestors，itappears，usedtoleadruffiansontheCumberlandsideoftheBorder——helookedon"Squire"RickVoiseyasacutbelowhim。Hewascalled"Squire，"asfarasIcanmakeout，becauseheusedtoplaycardseveryeveningwithaparsonintheneighbourhoodwhowentbythenameof"Devil"
Hawkins。NotthattheVoiseystockistobedespised。TheyhavehadthisfarmsinceitwasgrantedtooneRichardVoyseybycopydated8thSeptember，13HenryVIII。Mrs。Hopgood，thewifeofthebailiff—
—adear，quaint，sereneoldsoulwithcheekslikearosy，witheredapple，andanunboundedloveofPasiance——showedmetheverydocument。
"Ikapeit，"shesaid。"Mr。Fordbetuproud——butotherfolksbeproudtu。’Tisapra—aperoldfam’ly:allthewomenisMargery，Pasiance，orMary;allthemen’sRichardsan’Johnsan’Rogers;oldastheyapple—trees。"
RickVoiseywasarackety，huntingfellow，and"dipped"theoldfarmuptoitsthatchedroof。JohnFordtookhisrevengebybuyingupthemortgages，foreclosing，andcommandinghisdaughterandVoiseytogoonlivinghererentfree;thistheydutifullydiduntiltheywerebothkilledinadog—cartaccident，eightyearsago。OldFord’sfinancialsmashcameayearlater，andsincethenhe’slivedherewithPasiance。Ifancyit’sthecrossinherbloodthatmakeshersorestless，andirresponsible:ifshehadbeenallanativeshe’dhavebeenhappyenoughhere，orallastrangerlikeJohnFordhimself，butthetwostrainsstrugglingformasteryseemtogivehernorest。
You’llthinkthisafar—fetchedtheory，butIbelieveittobethetrueone。She’llstandwithlipspressedtogether，herarmsfoldedtightacrosshernarrowchest，staringasifshecouldseebeyondthethingsroundher;thensomethingcatchesherattention，hereyeswillgrowlaughing，soft，orscornfulallinaminute！She’seighteen，perfectlyfearlessinaboat，butyoucan’tgethertomountahorse—
—asoresubjectwithhergrandfather，whospendsmostofhisdayonalean，half—bredpony，thatcarrieshimlikeafeather，forallhisweight。
TheyputmeuphereasafavourtoDanTreffry;there’sanarrangementofL。s。d。withMrs。Hopgoodinthebackground。Theyaren’tatallwelloff;thisisthelargestfarmabout，butitdoesn’tbringtheminmuch。TolookatJohnFord，itseemsincredibleheshouldbeshortofmoney——he’stoolarge。
Wehavefamilyprayersateight，then，breakfast——afterthatfreedomforwritingoranythingelsetillsupperandeveningprayers。Atmiddayoneforagesforoneself。OnSundays，twomilestochurchtwice，oryougetintoJohnFord’sblackbooks……DanTreffryhimselfisstayingatKingswear。Hesayshe’smadehispile;itsuitshimdownhere——likeasleepafteryearsofbeingtoowide—
awake;hehadaroughtimeinNewZealand，untilthatminemadehisfortune。You’dhardlyrememberhim;heremindsmeofhisuncle，oldNicholasTreffry;thesameslowwayofspeaking，withahesitation，andatrickofrepeatingyournamewitheverythinghesays;left—
handedtoo，andthesameslowtwinkleinhiseyes。Hehasadark，shortbeard，andred—browncheeks;isalittlebaldonthetemples，andabitgrey，buthardasiron。Heridesovernearlyeveryday，attendedbyablackspanielwithawonderfulnoseandahorrorofpetticoats。HehastoldmelotsofgoodstoriesofJohnFordintheearlysquatter’stimes;hisfeatswithhorseslivetothisday;andhewasthroughtheMaoriwars;asDansays，"amanafterUncleNic’sownheart。"
Theyareverygoodfriends，andrespecteachother;Danhasagreatadmirationfortheoldman，buttheattractionisPasiance。Hetalksverylittlewhenshe’sintheroom，butlooksatherinasidelong，wistfulsortofway。Pasiance’sconducttohimwouldbecruelinanyoneelse，butinher，onetakesitwithapinchofsalt。Dangoesoff，butturnsupagainasquietanddoggedasyouplease。
Lastnight，forinstance，weweresittingintheloggiaaftersupper。
Pasiancewasfingeringthestringsofherviolin，andsuddenlyDan（aboldthingforhim）askedhertoplay。
"What！"shesaid，"beforemen？No，thankyou！"
"Whynot？"
"BecauseIhatethem。"
DowncameJohnFord’shandonthewickertable:"Youforgetyourself！
Gotobed！"
ShegaveDanalook，andwent;wecouldhearherplayinginherbedroom;itsoundedlikeadanceofspirits;andjustwhenonethoughtshehadfinished，outitwouldbreakagainlikeaburstoflaughter。Presently，JohnFordbeggedourpardonsceremoniously，andstumpedoffindoors。Theviolinceased;weheardhisvoicegrowlingather;downhecameagain。Justashewassettledinhischairtherewasasoftswish，andsomethingdarkcamefallingthroughtheappleboughs。Theviolin！Youshouldhaveseenhisface！Danwouldhavepickedtheviolinup，buttheoldmanstoppedhim。Later，frommybedroomwindow，IsawJohnFordcomeoutandstandlookingattheviolin。Heraisedhisfootasiftostamponit。Atlasthepickeditup，wipeditcarefully，andtookitin……
Myroomisnexttohers。Ikepthearingherlaugh，anoisetooasifsheweredraggingthingsabouttheroom。ThenIfellasleep，butwokewithastart，andwenttothewindowforabreathoffreshair。
Suchablack，breathlessnight！Nothingtobeseenbutthetwisted，blackerbranches;notthefainteststirofleaves，nosoundbutmuffledgruntingfromthecowhouse，andnowandthenafaintsigh。I
hadthequeerestfeelingofunrestandfear，thelastthingtoexpectonsuchanight。Thereissomethingherethat’sdisturbing;asortofsuppressedstruggle。I’veneverinmylifeseenanythingsoirresponsibleasthisgirl，orsouncompromisingastheoldman;I
keepthinkingofthewayhewipedthatviolin。It’sjustasifasparkwouldseteverythinginablaze。There’samenaceoftragedy——
or——perhapsit’sonlytheheat，andtoomuchofMotherHopgood’scrame……
II
"Tuesday……I’vemadeanewacquaintance。Iwaslyingintheorchard，andpresently，notseeingme，hecamealong——amanofmiddleheight，withasingularlygoodbalance，andnolumber——ratheroldblueclothes，aflannelshirt，adullrednecktie，brownshoes，acapwithaleatherpeakpushedupontheforehead。Facelongandnarrow，bronzedwithakindofpaleburnt—inbrownness;agoodforehead。Abrownmoustache，beardratherpointed，blackeningaboutthecheeks;hischinnotvisible，butfromthebeard’sgrowthmustbebig;mouthIshouldjudgesensuous。Nosestraightandblunt;eyesgrey，withanupwardlook，notexactlyfrank，becausedefiant;twoparallelfurrowsdowneachcheek，onefromtheinnercorneroftheeye，onefromthenostril;ageperhapsthirty—five。Abouttheface，attitude，movements，somethingimmenselyvital，adaptable，daring，andunprincipled。
Hestoodinfrontoftheloggia，bitinghisfingers，akindofnineteenth—centurybuccaneer，andIwonderedwhathewasdoinginthisgalley。TheysayyoucantellamanofKentoraSomersetshireman;certainlyyoucantellaYorkshireman，andthisfellowcouldonlyhavebeenamanofDevon，oneofthetwomaintypesfoundinthiscounty。Hewhistled;andoutcamePasianceinageranium—
coloureddress，lookinglikesometallpoppy——youknowtheslightdroopofapoppy’shead，andthewaythewindswaysitsstem……Sheisahumanpoppy，herfuzzydarkhairislikeapoppy’slustrelessblackheart，shehasapoppy’stantalisingattractionandrepulsion，somethingfatal，orratherfateful。Shecamewalkinguptomynewfriend，thencaughtsightofme，andstoppeddead。
"That，"shesaidtome，"isZacharyPearse。This，"shesaidtohim，"isourlodger。"Shesaiditwithawonderfulsoftmalice。Shewantedtoscratchme，andshescratched。HalfanhourlaterIwasintheyard，whenupcamethisfellowPearse。
"Gladtoknowyou，"hesaid，lookingthoughtfullyatthepigs。
"You’reawriter，aren’tyou？"
"Asortofone，"Isaid。
"Ifbyanychance，"hesaidsuddenly，"you’relookingforajob，I
couldputsomethinginyourway。Walkdowntothebeachwithme，andI’lltellyou;myboat’satanchor，smartestlittlecraftintheseparts。"
Itwasveryhot，andIhadnodesirewhatevertogodowntothebeach——Iwent，allthesame。WehadnotgonefarwhenJohnFordandDanTreffrycameintothelane。Ourfriendseemedalittledisconcerted，butsoonrecoveredhimself。Wemetinthemiddleofthelane，wheretherewashardlyroomtopass。JohnFord，wholookedveryhaughty，putonhispince—nezandstaredatPearse。
"Good—day！"saidPearse;"fineweather！I’vebeenuptoaskPasiancetocomeforasail。Wednesdaywethought，weatherpermitting;thisgentleman’scoming。Perhapsyou’llcometoo，Mr。Treffry。You’veneverseenmyplace。I’llgiveyoulunch，andshowyoumyfather。
He’sworthacoupleofhours’sailanyday。"Itwassaidinsuchanoddwaythatonecouldn’tresenthisimpudence。JohnFordwasseizedwithafitofwheezing，andseemedontheeveofanexplosion;heglancedatme，andcheckedhimself。
"You’reverygood，"hesaidicily;"mygranddaughterhasotherthingstodo。You，gentlemen，willpleaseyourselves";and，withaveryslightbow，hewentstumpingontothehouse。Danlookedatme，andIlookedathim。
"You’llcome？"saidPearse，ratherwistfully。Danstammered:"Thankyou，Mr。Pearse;I’mabettermanonahorsethaninaboat，but——
thankyou。"Corneredinthisway，he’sashy，soft—heartedbeing。
Pearsesmiledhisthanks。"Wednesday，then，atteno’clock;youshan’tregretit。"
"Pertinaciousbeggar！"IheardDanmutterinhisbeard;andfoundmyselfmarchingdownthelaneagainbyPearse’sside。IaskedhimwhathewasgoodenoughtomeanbysayingIwascoming，withouthavingaskedme。Heanswered，unabashed:
"Yousee，I’mnotfriendswiththeoldman;butIknewhe’dnotbeimpolitetoyou，soItooktheliberty。"
Hehascertainlyaknackofturningone’sangertocuriosity。Weweredowninthecombenow;thetidewasrunningout，andthesandalllittle，wet，shiningridges。Aboutaquarterofamileoutlayacutter，withhertansailhalfdown，swingingtotheswell。Thesunlightwasmakingthepinkcliffsglowinthemostwonderfulway;
andshiftinginbrightpatchesoverthesealikemovingshoalsofgoldfish。Pearseperchedhimselfonhisdinghy，andlookedoutunderhishand。Heseemedlostinadmiration。
"Ifwecouldonlynetsomeofthosespangles，"hesaid，"an’makegoldof’em！Nomoreworkthen。"
"It’sabigjobI’vegoton，"hesaidpresently;"I’lltellyouaboutitonWednesday。Iwantajournalist。"
"ButIdon’twriteforthepapers，"Isaid;"Idoothersortofwork。
Mygameisarchaeology。"
"Itdoesn’tmatter，"hesaid，"themoreimaginationthebetter。It’dbeathunderinggoodthingforyou。"
Hisassurancewasamazing，butitwaspastsupper—time，andhungergettingthebetterofmycuriosity，Ibadehimgood—night。WhenI
lookedback，hewasstillthere，ontheedgeofhisboat，gazingatthesea。Aqueersortofbirdaltogether，butattractivesomehow。