He looked at her, and she thought there was a hint of relief on his face. “You have seen all there is to see,” he said. “I think you are wise.”
He mounted into the cart beside her and walked the horse forward over the grass.
“There is little Ruth,” said Frances.
The child had come suddenly into view from behind one of the great stones, moving as was her wont lightly and fearlessly, her face upturned. She was carrying a small bunch of harebells, and as she came towards them she stooped and felt among the grass for more. Her soft, chirruping song rose up like the humming of a fairy. Finding some of the wiry stalks she sought, she knelt down in the sunshine to gather them.
“How happy she is!” whispered Frances.
The man said nothing. He walked the horse straight up to the little kneeling figure and reined in beside it.
“Is that you, Uncle Arthur?” said little Ruth.
“Yes,” he said. “Come here to me and I will take you back to the corn-field!”
She got up and came to him. He stooped and grasped her shoulder, guiding her to the step.
“Is Miss Thorold there?” said the child.