A short, steep terrace descended to a formally planted plot, now
flowerless, enclosed by low privet hedges. There were walks of rolled
bark, and, against a lower, denser barrier, a long, white bench. The
ground still fell away beyond; and there was a sturdy orchard, cleared
of underbrush, with crimson apples among the grey limbs. Beyond, across
a low, tangled wild, an amphitheatre of hills rose against the sky,
drawn from the extreme right about the façade of the dwelling. They
seemed to enclose Myrtle Forge in a natural domain of its own; and,
actually, Gilbert Penny owned most of the acreage within that immediate
circle.

Mrs. Winscombe sank on the garden bench, where she sat with a hand
resting on either side of her. Above them a column of smoke rose from
the kitchen against the blue. A second, heavier cloud rolled up from the
Forge below. "They have been repairing the forebay," Howat explained;
"the Forge has been closed. I'm supposed to be in the counting house."

"You work?" she demanded surprised.

"At the ledger, put things down--what the men are paid, mostly in
tobacco and shoes, ozenbrigs and molasses and rum; or garters and
handkerchiefs for the women. Then I enter the pig hauled from Shadrach,
and the carriage of the blooms."

"I don't understand any of that," she announced.

"It probably wouldn't interest you; the pig's the iron cast at the
furnace. It's worked in the forges, and hammered into blooms and
anconies, chunks or stout bars of wrought iron. We do better than two