“Are you hungry?”

And Felix remembered that they never had any proper meals, but, when hungry, went to the kitchen, where a wood-fire was always burning, and either heated up coffee, and porridge that was already made, with boiled eggs and baked potatoes and apples, or devoured bread, cheese, jam, honey, cream, tomatoes, butter, nuts, and fruit, that were always set out there on a wooden table, under a muslin awning; he remembered, too, that they washed up their own bowls and spoons and plates, and, having finished, went outside and drew themselves a draught of water.  Queer life, and deuced uncomfortable—­almost Chinese in its reversal of everything that every one else was doing.

“No,” he said, “I’m not.”

“I am.  Here she is.”

Felix felt his heart beating—­Clara was not alone in being frightened of this woman.  She was coming through the orchard with the dog; a remarkable-looking woman—­oh, certainly remarkable!  She greeted him without surprise and, sitting down close to Tod, said:  “I’m glad to see you.”

Why did this family somehow make him feel inferior?  The way she sat there and looked at him so calmly!  Still more the way she narrowed her eyes and wrinkled her lips, as if rather malicious thoughts were rising in her soul!  Her hair, as is the way of fine, soft, almost indigo-colored hair, was already showing threads of silver; her whole face and figure thinner than he had remembered.  But a striking woman still—­with wonderful eyes!  Her dress—­Felix had scanned many a crank in his day—­was not so alarming as it had once seemed to Clara; its coarse-woven, deep-blue linen and needle-worked yoke were pleasing to him, and he could hardly take his gaze from the kingfisher-blue band or fillet that she wore round that silver-threaded black hair.

He began by giving her Clara’s note, the wording of which he had himself dictated: 

“Dear Kirsteen: 

“Though we have not seen each other for so long, I am sure you will forgive my writing.  It would give us so much pleasure if you and the two children would come over for a night or two while Felix and his young folk are staying with us.  It is no use, I fear, to ask Tod; but of course if he would come, too, both Stanley and myself would be delighted.

“Yours cordially,
“Clara Freeland.”

She read it, handed it to Tod, who also read it and handed it to Felix.  Nobody said anything.  It was so altogether simple and friendly a note that Felix felt pleased with it, thinking:  ‘I expressed that well!’

Then Tod said:  “Go ahead, old man!  You’ve got something to say about the youngsters, haven’t you?”

How on earth did he know that?  But then Tod had a sort of queer prescience.

“Well,” he brought out with an effort, “don’t you think it’s a pity to embroil your young people in village troubles?  We’ve been hearing from Stanley—­”