I thanked her for her encomium.
"Ever since my father retired from Boston to purchase this hill and the wilderness surrounding it," she went on, "ever since he came here to live a hermit's life—a life devoted solely to painting landscapes—I also have lived here all alone with him.
"That is three years, now. And from the very beginning—from the very first day of our arrival, somehow or other I was conscious that there was something abnormal about this corner of the world."
She bent forward, lowering her voice a trifle:
"Have you noticed," she asked, "that so many things seem to be circular out here?"
"Circular?" I repeated, surprised.
"Yes. That crater is circular; so is the bottom of it; so is this plateau, and the hill; and the forests surrounding us; and the mountain ranges on the horizon."
"But all this is natural."
"Perhaps. But in those woods, down there, there are, here and there, great circles of crumbling soil—perfect circles a mile in diameter."
"Mounds built by prehistoric man, no doubt."