nt eyes, sunk in fat, and almost
hidden by the fleshy, hairy triangles of his ear-flaps.

"Don't you think Henry is a _very_ handsome pig?" asked Paul.

"I think you take very good care of him," she answered. "Now what is the
matter about the oil you can't put on? Doesn't he like it?"

"He hasn't felt it yet. He won't even let me try. Look!" The child
climbed over the fence and made a quick grab at the animal, which gave
an alarmed, startled grunt, wheeled with astonishing nimbleness, and
darted away in a short-legged gallop.

"Look there, that's the way he always does!" said Paul in an aggrieved
tone.

Marise considered the pig for a moment. He had turned again and was once
more staring at her, his quivering, fleshy snout in the air, a
singularly alert expression of attention animating his heavy-jowled
countenance.

"Are there any things he specially likes?" she asked Paul.

"He likes to eat, of course, being a pig," said Paul, "and he loves you
to scratch his back with a stick."

"Oh, then it's easy. Come outside the pen. Now listen. You go back to
the barn and get whatever it is you feed him. Then you put that in the
trough, and let him begin to eat, quietly. Then take your oil and your
brush, and moving very slowly so that you don't startle him, lean over
the fence and begin to brush it on his back where he likes to be rubbed.
If he likes the feel of it, he'll probably stand still. I'll wait here,
till you see how it comes out."

She moved away a few paces, and sank down on the grass under the tree,
as though the heat had flung her there. The grass crisped drily under
her, as though it too were parched.

She closed her eyes and felt the sun beating palpably on the lids . . .
or was it that hot inward pulse still throbbing . . . ? Why wouldn't Neale
do it for her? Why wouldn't he put out that strength of his and crush
out this strange agitation of hers, _forbid_ it to her? Then there was
nothing in her but intense discomfort, as though that were a universe of
its own. A low, distant growl of thunder shook the air with a muffled,
muted roar.

After a time, a little voice back of her announced in a low, cautious
tone, "Mother, it _works!_ Henry loves it!"

She turned her head and saw the little boy vigorously rubbing the ears
and flanks of the pig, which stood perfectly still, its eyes half shut,
rapt in a beatitude of satisfaction.

Marise turned her head away and slid down lower on the grass, so that