She liked to rake hay, she said; it came natural to her, and she had no doubt she inherited the taste from her mother, who had probably worked in the fields in Germany.
One afternoon, when Jerry knew that Harold was busy in one of Mr.
Tracy's meadows, she started to join him, for he had complained of a headache at home, and had expressed a fear that he might not be able to finish the task he had imposed upon himself.

The road to the field was by the Tramp House, which looked so cool and quiet, with its thick covering of woodbine and ivy over it, that Jerry turned aside for a moment to look into the room which had so great a fascination for her, and where she spent so much time.

Indeed, she seldom passed near it without going in for a moment and standing by the old table which had once held her and her dead mother.

Things came back to her there, she said, and she could almost give a name to the pale-faced woman who haunted her so often.
As she entered the damp, dark place now, she started, with an exclamation of surprise, which was echoed by another, as Frank Tracy sprang up and confronted her.

It was not often that he entered the Tramp House, and he would not have confessed to any one his superstitious dread of it, or that, when he did visit it, he always had a feeling that the dead woman found there years ago would start up to accuse him of his deceit and hypocrisy.