These words suddenly fixed Elaine's attention.
"He's painting out there now," said Jane, with interest; "we see him as we came threw the waste."
"I dessay you will have," returned Mrs. Battishill, benevolently. "I showed him all over the hoose, and he was that taken oop with it. He said he never see such a queer place in his life. He didn't seem half a bad chap, to me," she was kind enough to add.
Poole Farm had never before presented itself to Elaine in such a pleasant light. It was most certainly a very queer house, for it was built right against the side of a hill, so that you could walk in at the front door, ascend two or three flights of stairs, and then walk out of a door at the back, and find yourself unexpectedly on terra firma. It had never occurred, to the girl till to-day that this eccentricity was attractive; but now the house, the farmer's wife, the whole surrounding landscape seemed to borrow new dignity from the potent fact of this unknown artist having admired them.
She did not join in the conversation, but listened with feverish interest as Jane asked if Mrs. Battishill knew his name.
No, she had not asked it. He had said he was staying at the "Fountain Head," and, when she asked him how long he meant to stay in these parts, he laughed and answered "as long as the fine weather lasts."
"Eh, well, we'll hope the rain'll hold off till he's done his picture," said Jane, as she rose to take her leave.
The farmer's wife protested against such a short visit, but Jane reminded her that tea at Edge was at six o'clock, and that they were bound to be home in good time; and so they started out again into the golden evening, where a circle of rose-color was just beginning to rim the intense blue of the pure sky.
When they had shut the wicket-gate, and crossed the brook by the miniature bridge of three crazy planks, Elaine took her courage in both hands and ventured a petition.
"Jane," said she, "don't go across the waste. Let us go home by the road; it will be—a change."