ything, as one would guess, in a narrow-minded,
large-handed way. He came to grief suddenly; I don't quite know how. I
believe his only son lost money on the turf, and then, unable to face
his father, shot himself; if you had seen John Ford, you could imagine
that. His wife died, too, that year. He paid up to the last penny, and
came home, to live on this farm. He told me the other night that he had
only one relation in the world, his granddaughter, who lives here with
him. Pasiance Voisey--old spelling for Patience, but they pronounce,
it Pash-yence--is sitting out here with me at this moment on a sort of
rustic loggia that opens into the orchard. Her sleeves are rolled up,
and she's stripping currants, ready for black currant tea. Now and then
she rests her elbows on the table, eats a berry, pouts her lips, and,
begins again. She has a round, little face; a long, slender body; cheeks
like poppies; a bushy mass of black-brown hair, and dark-brown, almost
black, eyes; her nose is snub; her lips quick, red, rather full; all her
motions quick and soft. She loves bright colours. She's rather like a
little cat; sometimes she seems all sympathy, then in a moment as hard
as tortoise-shell. She's all impulse; yet she doesn't like to show her
feelings; I sometimes wonder whether she has any. She plays the violin.

It's queer to see these two together, queer and rather sad. The old man
has a fierce tenderness for her that strikes into the very roots of
him. I see him torn between it, and his cold north-country horror of his
feelings; his life with her is an unconscious torture to him. She's a
restless, chafing thing, demure enough one moment, then flashing out
into mocking speeches or hard little laughs. Yet she's fond of him in
her fashion; I saw her kiss him once when he was asleep. She obeys him
generally--in a way as if she couldn't breathe while she was doing it.
She's had a queer sort of education--history, geography, elementary
mathematics, and nothing else; never been to school; had a few lessons
on the violin, but has taught herself most of what she knows. She is
well up in the lore of birds, flowers, and insects; has three cats, who
follow her about; and is full of pranks. The other day she called out to
me, "I've something for you. Hold out your hand and shut your eyes!"
It was a large, black slug! She's the child of the old fellow's only
daughter, who was sent home for schooling at Torquay, and made a runaway
match wi