He knew now in a flare of intuition why the old rooms had been abandoned, why Joan ferried folk from the village in the valley to the village across the river, why her gown of the morning and the rags of the runaway had been pitifully patched and mended.

And he remembered the mystery of her color, when, questing an inn, he had glanced at the house on the cliff and hinted that her uncle might consent to be his host.
"I know he would!" Joan's low voice rang in his ears again with new meaning.
Adam Craig was a miser.
He shrank at the thought.

Annoyed to find the old man's eyes boring into him again, he cleared his throat and looked away.
"So," said Adam Craig, "you are a famous painter!" "I am a painter," said Kenny stiffly.
"With medals," purred Adam.
"With medals." A fit of coughing seemed for an interval to threaten the old man's very life.
"Yonder in the closet," he said huskily, "is a bottle and some glasses.
Bring them here." Kenny obeyed.
"Sit down." With the old man's eyes upon him, hungry and expectant, as if he clutched at the thought of companionship, Kenny reluctantly found a chair for himself and sat down.

Pity made him gentle.

Year in and year out, he remembered with a shiver, Adam Craig sat huddled here in his wheel-chair listening to wind and rain, sleet and snow, the rustle of summer trees and the wind of autumn.