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“
He
’
s
down
there
now
?
”
“
Yes
.
”
He
shifted
his
weight
again
,
crossed
his
arms
,
and
continued
to
survey
the
distant
landscape
.
“
Well
,
so
long
,
”
he
said
at
last
,
inconclusively
;
and
turning
away
he
shambled
up
the
hillside
.
From
the
ledge
above
her
,
he
paused
to
call
down
:
“
I
wouldn
’
t
go
there
a
Sunday
”
;
then
he
clambered
on
till
the
trees
closed
in
on
him
.
Presently
,
from
high
overhead
,
Charity
heard
the
ring
of
his
axe
.
She
lay
on
the
warm
ridge
,
thinking
of
many
things
that
the
woodsman
’
s
appearance
had
stirred
up
in
her
.
She
knew
nothing
of
her
early
life
,
and
had
never
felt
any
curiosity
about
it
:
only
a
sullen
reluctance
to
explore
the
corner
of
her
memory
where
certain
blurred
images
lingered
.
But
all
that
had
happened
to
her
within
the
last
few
weeks
had
stirred
her
to
the
sleeping
depths
.
She
had
become
absorbingly
interesting
to
herself
,
and
everything
that
had
to
do
with
her
past
was
illuminated
by
this
sudden
curiosity
.
She
hated
more
than
ever
the
fact
of
coming
from
the
Mountain
;
but
it
was
no
longer
indifferent
to
her
.
Everything
that
in
any
way
affected
her
was
alive
and
vivid
:
even
the
hateful
things
had
grown
interesting
because
they
were
a
part
of
herself
.
“
I
wonder
if
Liff
Hyatt
knows
who
my
mother
was
?
”
she
mused
;
and
it
filled
her
with
a
tremor
of
surprise
to
think
that
some
woman
who
was
once
young
and
slight
,
with
quick
motions
of
the
blood
like
hers
,
had
carried
her
in
her
breast
,
and
watched
her
sleeping
.
She
had
always
thought
of
her
mother
as
so
long
dead
as
to
be
no
more
than
a
nameless
pinch
of
earth
;
but
now
it
occurred
to
her
that
the
once
-
young
woman
might
be
alive
,
and
wrinkled
and
elf
-
locked
like
the
woman
she
had
sometimes
seen
in
the
door
of
the
brown
house
that
Lucius
Harney
wanted
to
draw
.
The
thought
brought
him
back
to
the
central
point
in
her
mind
,
and
she
strayed
away
from
the
conjectures
roused
by
Liff
Hyatt
’
s
presence
.
Speculations
concerning
the
past
could
not
hold
her
long
when
the
present
was
so
rich
,
the
future
so
rosy
,
and
when
Lucius
Harney
,
a
stone
’
s
throw
away
,
was
bending
over
his
sketch
-
book
,
frowning
,
calculating
,
measuring
,
and
then
throwing
his
head
back
with
the
sudden
smile
that
had
shed
its
brightness
over
everything
.
She
scrambled
to
her
feet
,
but
as
she
did
so
she
saw
him
coming
up
the
pasture
and
dropped
down
on
the
grass
to
wait
.
When
he
was
drawing
and
measuring
one
of
“
his
houses
,
”
as
she
called
them
,
she
often
strayed
away
by
herself
into
the
woods
or
up
the
hillside
.
It
was
partly
from
shyness
that
she
did
so
:
from
a
sense
of
inadequacy
that
came
to
her
most
painfully
when
her
companion
,
absorbed
in
his
job
,
forgot
her
ignorance
and
her
inability
to
follow
his
least
allusion
,
and
plunged
into
a
monologue
on
art
and
life
.
To
avoid
the
awkwardness
of
listening
with
a
blank
face
,
and
also
to
escape
the
surprised
stare
of
the
inhabitants
of
the
houses
before
which
he
would
abruptly
pull
up
their
horse
and
open
his
sketch
-
book
,
she
slipped
away
to
some
spot
from
which
,
without
being
seen
,
she
could
watch
him
at
work
,
or
at
least
look
down
on
the
house
he
was
drawing
.
