"He's looking at you," she muttered. "He don't like strangers
poking around here, that I can tell you."

"And who is he?" Hamel enquired.

"Squire Fentolin," she answered, dropping her voice a little. "He's
a very kind-hearted gentleman, Squire Fentolin, but he don't like
strangers hanging around."

"Well, I am not exactly a stranger, you see," Hamel remarked. "My
father used to stay for months at a time in that little shanty there
and paint pictures. It's a good many years ago."

"I mind him," the woman said slowly. "His name was Hamel."

"I am his son," Hamel announced.

She pointed to the Hall. "Does he know that you are here?"

Hamel shook his head. "Not yet. I have been abroad for so long."

She suddenly relapsed into her curious habit. Her lips moved, but
no words came. She had turned her head a little and was facing
the sea.

"Tell me," Hamel asked gently, "why do you come out here alone, so
far from the village?"

She pointed with her finger to where the waves were breaking in a
thin line of white, about fifty yards from the beach.