ame more serious. "I wish," he told them,
"that we belonged to the church of England; you know the Penns have gone
back. It's pretty heavy at home after--after some other things. The
Quakers didn't use to be so infernally solemn. You should see the swells
about the Court; the greatest fun. And old George with a face like a
plum--"

"Don't you find anything here that pleases you?" Caroline demanded with
asperity.

"Myrtle's all right," he admitted; "not many of them are as pretty."

"I'll tell her you've come," Caroline promptly volunteered; "she won't
keep you waiting. There she is! No, it's Mrs. Winscombe."

She was swathed in a ruffled lilac cloak quilted with a dull gold
embroidery; satin slippers were buckled into high pattens of black
polished wood; and her head, relatively small with tight-drawn hair, was
uncovered. She was not as compelling under the sun as in candle light,
he observed. Her face, unpainted, was pale, an expression of petulance
discernible. Yet she was more potent than any other woman he had
encountered. "Isn't that the garden?" she asked, waving beyond the end
of the house. "I like gardens." She moved off in the direction
indicated; and--as he felt she expected, demanded--he followed slightly
behind.

A short, steep terrace descended to a formally planted plot, now
flowerless, enclosed by low privet hedges. There were walks of rolled
bark, and, against a lower, denser barrier, a long, white bench. The
ground still fell away beyond; and there was a sturdy orchard, cleared
of underbrush, with crimson apples among the grey limbs. Beyond, across
a low, tangled wild, an amphitheatre of hills rose against the sky,
drawn from the extreme right about the facade of the dwelling. They
seemed to enclose Myrtle Forge in a natural domain of its own; and,
actually, Gilbert Penny owned most of the acreage within that immediate
circle.

Mrs. Winscombe sank on the garden bench, where she sat with a hand
resting on either side of her. Above them a column of smoke rose from
the kitchen against the blue. A second, heavier cloud rolled up from the
Forge below. "They have been repairing the forebay," Howat explained;
"the Forge has been closed. I'm supposed to be in the counting house."

"You work?" she demanded surprised.

"At the ledger, put things down--what the men are paid, mostly in
tobacco and shoes, ozenbrigs and molasses and rum; or garters and
handkerchiefs for the women. Then I enter the pig haule