s reach was a small note-book in which from time to time he
jotted down certain numerals and made rapid calculations, frowning
impatiently as though the very act of writing was too slow for the
speed of his thought. There was a wonderful silence everywhere,--a
silence such as can hardly be comprehended by anyone who has never
visited wide-spreading country, over-canopied by large stretches of
open sky, and barricaded from the further world by mountain ranges
which are like huge walls built by a race of Titans. The dwellers in
such regions are few--there is no traffic save the coming and going of
occasional pack-mules across the hill tracks--no sign of modern
civilisation. Among such deep and solemn solitudes the sight of a
living human being is strange and incongruous, yet the man seated
outside his hut had an air of ease and satisfied proprietorship not
always found with wealthy owners of mansions and park-lands. He was so
thoroughly engrossed in his books and papers that he hardly saw, and
certainly did not hear, the approach of a woman who came climbing
wearily up the edge of the sloping hill against which his cabin
presented itself to the view as a sort of fitment, and advanced towards
him carrying a tin pail full of milk. This she set down within a yard
or so of him, and then, straightening her back, she rested her hands on
her hips and drew a long breath. For a minute or two he took no notice
of her. She waited. She was a big handsome creature, sun-browned and
black-haired, with flashing dark eyes lit by a spark that was not
originally caught from heaven. Presently, becoming conscious of her
presence, he threw his book aside and looked up.

"Well! So you've come after all! Yesterday you said you wouldn't."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"I do not wish you to starve."

"Very kind of you! But nothing can starve me."

"If you had no food--"

"I should find some"--he said--"Yes!--I should find some,--somewhere! I
want very little."

He rose, stretching his arms lazily above his head,--then, stooping, he
lifted the pail of milk and carried it into his cabin. Disappearing for
a moment, he returned, bringing back the pail empty.

"I have enough for two days now," he said--"and longer. What you
brought me at the beginning of the week has turned beautifully sour,--a
'lovely curd' as our cook at home used to say--, and with that 'lovely
curd' and plenty of fruit I'm living in luxury." Here he felt in his
pockets an