Up from the station they took the field paths, which cut off quite a mile.  The grass and woods were shining brightly, peacefully in the sun; it seemed incredible that there should be heartburnings about a land so smiling, that wrongs and miseries should haunt those who lived and worked in these bright fields.  Surely in this earthly paradise the dwellers were enviable, well-nourished souls, sleek and happy as the pied cattle that lifted their inquisitive muzzles!  Nedda tried to stroke the nose of one—­grayish, blunt, moist.  But the creature backed away from her hand, snuffling, and its cynical, soft eyes with chestnut lashes seemed warning the girl that she belonged to the breed that might be trusted to annoy.

In the last fields before the Joyfields crossroads they came up with a little, square, tow-headed man, without coat or cap, who had just driven some cattle in and was returning with his dog, at a ‘dot-here dot-there’ walk, as though still driving them.  He gave them a look rather like that of the bullock Nedda had tried to stroke.  She knew he must be one of the Malloring men, and longed to ask him questions; but he, too, looked shy and distrustful, as if he suspected that they wanted something out of him.  She summoned up courage, however, to say:  “Did you see about poor Bob Tryst?”

“I ’eard tell.  ‘E didn’ like prison.  They say prison takes the ’eart out of you.  ‘E didn’ think o’ that.”  And the smile that twisted the little man’s lips seemed to Nedda strange and cruel, as if he actually found pleasure in the fate of his fellow.  All she could find to answer was: 

“Is that a good dog?”

The little man looked down at the dog trotting alongside with drooped tail, and shook his head: 

“‘E’s no good wi’ beasts—­won’t touch ’em!” Then, looking up sidelong, he added surprisingly: 

“Mast’ Freeland ’e got a crack on the head, though!” Again there was that satisfied resentment in his voice and the little smile twisting his lips.  Nedda felt more lost than ever.

They parted at the crossroads and saw him looking back at them as they went up the steps to the wicket gate.  Amongst a patch of early sunflowers, Tod, in shirt and trousers, was surrounded by his dog and the three small Trysts, all apparently engaged in studying the biggest of the sunflowers, where a peacock-butterfly and a bee were feeding, one on a gold petal, the other on the black heart.  Nedda went quickly up to them and asked: 

“Has Derek come, Uncle Tod?”

Tod raised his eyes.  He did not seem in the least surprised to see her, as if his sky were in the habit of dropping his relatives at ten in the morning.

“Gone out again,” he said.

Nedda made a sign toward the children.

“Have you heard, Uncle Tod?”

Tod nodded and his blue eyes, staring above the children’s heads, darkened.

“Is Granny still here?”