As I stood musing, looking at the crumbling walls—no flowers, no bees there now—I noticed a man of middle age come up the steep path from the well.
The quarry had of late been again in activity, and the rubbish was being shot to fill up the old workings, but as yet the very oldest pit, that where the well was, had not been invaded.
I turned to speak to the man. He seemed a stranger. At least I did not know him.
“A picturesque spot,” said I, “to an artist quite a study.”
“I am not an artist,” he replied. “This spot is dear to me, inexpressibly dear through sad remembrances.”
I looked closer at him.
“Yes,” said he, “my name is George Kennaway. I—you know me now I see—well after that event I could not bear to be here; I went to Australia, and have done well there. I have come back now, after all these years—and——Well, sir, I have been to see the captain of the slate quarry, and I said to him: I will pay you almost what you like to ask, if you will spare the well and the old pit. Do not choke and bury them up—not whilst I live—for God’s sake—I could not bear it. I saw—that white girl floating there—no—let it remain as it was. Ask what you will.”