She shook her head and went back to her milking; still for a while in silence.
These were moments she feared, yet had no real dread of, seeing they had to be. Here was a young twig seeking to the light, a young twig that one day would become a branch and must be set in surest purpose or in the full growth, sooner or later, would reveal its stunted lines and the need there had been for vision in its training.
"Death's not the same as being dead," she said presently. "Nothing is quite dead." She stripped her cow, the last that evening and, putting the pail aside from long habits of precaution, she turned and took both his hands in hers.
"Do you know what a difficult question you've asked me, John?" she said.
He shook his head.
"You have, and awfully badly I want to answer it. I could quite easily if you were a little bit older. I'm so afraid I can't make it simple enough for you to understand now. And if I told you something you didn't understand, you'd make your own understanding of it and it might be all wrong."
"Only want to know about the moles," said he.
"Yes, I know. But what's happened to the moles happens to people."
"When?"
"Oh, all sorts of times. They get caught in the mowing knives."