“The earth is soft enough,” replied Andersen, “but the roots of these weeds adhere fast to the rock underneath. The rock, you know, the sandstone rock, lies only a short distance beneath our feet.”
“The same stone as Nevilton house is built of?”
“Certainly the same. Our stone, Mr. Romer’s stone, the stone upon which we all live here—except those who till the fields.”
“I hate the thing!” cried Lacrima, in curious agitation.
“You do? Well—to tell you the honest truth, so do I. I associate it with my father.”
“I associate it with Gladys,” whispered Lacrima.
“I can believe it. We both associate it with houses of tyranny, of wretched persecution. Perhaps I have never told you that my father was directly the cause of my mother’s death?”
“You have hinted it,” murmured the girl. “I suspected it. But Luke loves the stone, doesn’t he? He always speaks as if the mere handling of it, in his work-shop, gave him exquisite pleasure.”
“A great many things give Luke exquisite pleasure,” returned the other grimly. “Luke lives for exquisite pleasure.”