Jacob had nothing to hide from his mother.  It was only that he could make no sense himself of his extraordinary excitement, and as for writing it down—–­

“Jacob’s letters are so like him,” said Mrs. Jarvis, folding the sheet.

“Indeed he seems to be having ...” said Mrs. Flanders, and paused, for she was cutting out a dress and had to straighten the pattern, “... a very gay time.”

Mrs. Jarvis thought of Paris.  At her back the window was open, for it was a mild night; a calm night; when the moon seemed muffled and the apple trees stood perfectly still.

“I never pity the dead,” said Mrs. Jarvis, shifting the cushion at her back, and clasping her hands behind her head.  Betty Flanders did not hear, for her scissors made so much noise on the table.

“They are at rest,” said Mrs. Jarvis.  “And we spend our days doing foolish unnecessary things without knowing why.”

Mrs. Jarvis was not liked in the village.

“You never walk at this time of night?” she asked Mrs. Flanders.

“It is certainly wonderfully mild,” said Mrs. Flanders.

Yet it was years since she had opened the orchard gate and gone out on Dods Hill after dinner.

“It is perfectly dry,” said Mrs. Jarvis, as they shut the orchard door and stepped on to the turf.

“I shan’t go far,” said Betty Flanders.  “Yes, Jacob will leave Paris on Wednesday.”

“Jacob was always my friend of the three,” said Mrs. Jarvis.

“Now, my dear, I am going no further,” said Mrs. Flanders.  They had climbed the dark hill and reached the Roman camp.

The rampart rose at their feet—­the smooth circle surrounding the camp or the grave.  How many needles Betty Flanders had lost there; and her garnet brooch.

“It is much clearer than this sometimes,” said Mrs. Jarvis, standing upon the ridge.  There were no clouds, and yet there was a haze over the sea, and over the moors.  The lights of Scarborough flashed, as if a woman wearing a diamond necklace turned her head this way and that.

“How quiet it is!” said Mrs. Jarvis.

Mrs. Flanders rubbed the turf with her toe, thinking of her garnet brooch.

Mrs. Jarvis found it difficult to think of herself to-night.  It was so calm.  There was no wind; nothing racing, flying, escaping.  Black shadows stood still over the silver moors.  The furze bushes stood perfectly still.  Neither did Mrs. Jarvis think of God.  There was a church behind them, of course.  The church clock struck ten.  Did the strokes reach the furze bush, or did the thorn tree hear them?

Mrs. Flanders was stooping down to pick up a pebble.  Sometimes people do find things, Mrs. Jarvis thought, and yet in this hazy moonlight it was impossible to see anything, except bones, and little pieces of chalk.

“Jacob bought it with his own money, and then I brought Mr. Parker up to see the view, and it must have dropped—­” Mrs. Flanders murmured.