"She'll ha gone into service," she said in deep and humming voice, like an echo of her daughter's, but somewhat dulled and flat with wear.
"In Beachbourne?" asked Ernie.
"Of course we doosn't see her as often as we used when she was at the Hotel. D'idn't to be expected, surely," said the mother parrying.
"And it bein winter and all," continued the old man, taking up the tale. "No coaches at this time o year. And dis a tidy traipse over the hill for a maid." He turned the conversation. "You'll ha walked, Mr., to judge from yer boots." ...
Ernie trudged home over the greasy hills with certain clear impressions in his mind.
The old folk were anxious: they did not know where Ruth was: and they would not talk.
Was she writing?
Was she still in Beachbourne?