“Where does the bad go to?”
There was a moment’s silence between them. But the world of the farm was alive with sound. The pigeons’ coo, the call of the cowman to his herd, the chuckles of the baby, accompanied by the full evening chorus of birds.
“There isn’t any bad in there,” said Ruth.
“Your farm is bewitched,” said North. “I might be no older than Bertram Aurelius talking nonsense like this. Come down to earth, you foolish woman. There’s a telegraph boy coming up the drive.”
Ruth’s face clouded a little. “I have not got over the dread of telegrams,” she said. “It takes one back to those dreadful days——”
She shivered as they waited for the boy to reach them. He whistled as he came, undisturbed by much clamour from Sarah and Selina; they were old friends and he knew their ways.
Ruth tore the envelope open, read the telegram, and handed it to North. “May I come?” were its three short words, and it was signed “Violet Riversley.”
“You will have her?” said North.
“Yes, of course.” Ruth penciled her answer on the prepaid form and handed it to the boy.
North heaved a sigh of relief. “It’s good of you. You know she has not been well.”