He strolled through the wicket about the piece of waste ground, thinking of the change that had come over her when he spoke of her return from Rome.  Possibly she had met Ulick in Rome and had fled from him, or some other man.  But he was not in the least curious to inquire out her secret, sufficient it was for him to know that her mood had passed.  How suddenly it had passed!  And how fortunate his mention of the yacht!  Her attention had suddenly been distracted, now she was as charming as before... gone to look after those little boys, to see that their beds were comfortable, and that their night-shirts had buttons on them.  Every day in London their living was earned in tiresome lessons to pupils who had no gift for singing, but had to be encouraged for the sake of their money, which was spent on this hillside.

“Such is the mysterious way of life.  Our rewards are never those we anticipate, but we are rewarded.”

The money he had spent on her had brought her to this hillside to attend on six cripples, destitute little boys.  After all what better reward could he have hoped for?  But a great part of his love of her had been lost.  Never again would he take her hand or kiss her again.  So his heart filled with a natural sadness and a great tenderness, and he stood watching the smoke rising from the cottagers’ chimneys straight into the evening air.  She had told him that one of her little boys had come from that village, and to hear how the child had been adopted he must scramble down this rough path.  The moment was propitious for a chat with the cottagers, whom he would find sitting at their doors, the men smoking their pipes, the women knitting or gossiping, “the characteristic end of every day since the beginning of the world,” he said, “and it will be pleasant to read her portrait in these humble minds.”

“A fine evening, my man?”

“Fine enough, sir; the wheat rick will be up before the Goodwood races, the first time for the last thirty years.”  And the talk turned on the price of corn and on the coming harvest, and then on Miss Innes, who sometimes came down to see them and sang songs for the children.

“So she sings for the children?  She used to do that in Italy.”

“Has she been in Italy, sir?”

To interest them he told how Evelyn had sung in all the opera houses of Europe; and then, fearing his confessions were indiscreet, he asked the woman nearest him if she was the mother of the little boy Evelyn had taken to live with her.

“No, sir, ’e is Mrs. Watney’s son in the next cottage.”  And Owen moved away to interrogate Mrs. Watney, who told him that her son was not a cripple.

“’Is limbs be sound enough, only the poor little chap ’ad the small-pox badly when he was four, and ’as been blind ever since.  A extraordinary ’appy child; and Miss Innes has promised to ’ave him taught the pianna.”

“A piano-tuner must have a good ear, and Miss Innes says his ear is perfect.  He’ll whistle anything he hears.”