He dismounted; he walked beside her to the stepping-stones before the farm.

The second time he went to White Farm, and she and Jenny, with Merran to help, were laying linen to bleach upon the sun-washed hillside.

He had stayed an hour, and though he was not alone with her, yet he might look at her, listen to her.

She was not a chatterer; she worked or stood, almost as silent as a master painter's subtle picture stepped out of its frame, or as Pygmalion's statue-maid, flushing with life, but as yet tongue-holden.

Yet she said certain things, and they were to him all music and wit.