“The doctor is right,” said Ashe, in his firm tones; “I myself—­”

“The doctor is not right,” said the girl, turning a white face on the speaker, “I know better.  The poet is right.  The poet is always right.  Oh, he has been here from the beginning of the world, and seen wonders and terrors that are all round our path, and only hiding behind a bush or a stone.  You and your doctoring and your science—­why, you have only been here for a few fumbling generations; and you can’t conquer even your own enemies of the flesh.  Oh, forgive me, Doctor, I know you do splendidly; but the fever comes in the village, and the people die and die for all that.  And now it’s my poor father.  God help us all!  The only thing left is to believe in God; for we can’t help believing in devils.”  And she left them, still walking quite slowly, but in such a fashion that no one could go after her.

The spring had already begun to ripen into summer, and spread a green tent from the tree over the garden table, when the American visitor, sitting there with his two professional companions, broke the silence by saying what had long been in his mind.

“Well,” he said, “I suppose whatever we may think it wise to say, we have all begun to think of a possible conclusion.  It can’t be put very delicately anyhow; but, after all, there’s a very necessary business side to it.  What are we going to do about poor Vane’s affairs, apart from himself?  I suppose you know,” he added, in a low voice to the lawyer, “whether he made a will?”

“He left everything to his daughter unconditionally,” replied Ashe.  “But nothing can be done with it.  There’s no proof whatever that he’s dead.”  “No legal proof?” remarked Paynter dryly.  A wrinkle of irritation had appeared in the big bald brow of Doctor Brown; and he made an impatient movement.

“Of course he’s dead,” he said.  “What’s the sense of all this legal fuss?  We were watching this side of the wood, weren’t we?  A man couldn’t have flown off those high cliffs over the sea; he could only have fallen off.  What else can he be but dead?”

“I speak as a lawyer,” returned Ashe, raising his eyebrows.  “We can’t presume his death, or have an inquest or anything till we find the poor fellow’s body, or some remains that may reasonably be presumed to be his body.”

“I see,” observed Paynter quietly.  “You speak as a lawyer; but I don’t think it’s very hard to guess what you think as a man.”

“I own I’d rather be a man than a lawyer,” said the doctor, rather roughly.  “I’d no notion the law was such an ass.  What’s the good of keeping the poor girl out of her property, and the estate all going to pieces?  Well, I must be off, or my patients will be going to pieces too.”

And with a curt salutation he pursued his path down to the village.

“That man does his duty, if anybody does,” remarked Paynter.  “We must pardon his—­shall I say manners or manner?”