this country. It had become dearer to her since her awakened feelings
had brought with them the complexities of new thoughts. It soothed her
though it solved nothing. It did not wish to solve anything. It lay
before her with its fields, its woods, its patches of heathy land, its
bones of grey limestone showing where the flesh of the red earth had
fallen away, its dips and hollows, its steep lanes, like the wide eye
of a being too full of understanding to attempt elucidations; it would
not explain; it knew but it would not impart the knowledge which must
be gained through the experience of years, of storms, of sunshine, of
calamity and joy.

And sometimes the presence of Francis with his personal claims and his
complaints was an intrusion, almost an anachronism. He was of his own
time, and the end of that was almost within sight, while the earth,
immensely old, had a youth of its own, something which Francis would
never have again. But perhaps, because he was essentially simple, he
would have fitted in well enough if he had been less ready to voice
his grievances and ruffle the calm which she so carefully preserved,
which he called coldness and for which he reproached her often.

'I have no peace,' he grumbled.

'You would get it if you would accept things as they are. You have to,
in the end, so why not now?'

She longed to give peace to him, but her tenderness was sane and she
found a strange pleasure in the pain of knowing him to be irritable
and childish. It made of her love a better thing, without the hope of
any reward but the continuance of service.