There was a plaintive quality in the voice of this russet maiden in
perfect keeping with the music and the words; and though her lips smiled,
there was a deep, wistful look in her eyes more in harmony with the
coming autumn than with this gorgeous harvest-time.

For a moment after she had finished singing she stood motionless,
absorbed by the far horizon; then suddenly she gave a little shake
of the body and said in a brisk, playfully chiding way:

"Kitty Tynan, Kitty Tynan, what a girl you are!" There was no one near,
so far as eye could see, so it was clear that the words were addressed
to herself. She was expressing that wonder which so many people feel
at discovering in themselves long-concealed characteristics, or find
themselves doing things out of their natural orbit, as they think. If
any one had told Kitty Tynan that she had rare imagination, she would
have wondered what was meant. If anyone had said to her, "What are you
dreaming about, Kitty?" she would have understood, however, for she had
had fits of dreaming ever since she was a child, and they had increased
during the past few years--since the man came to live with them whose
coat she was brushing. Perhaps this was only imitation, because the man
had a habit of standing or sitting still and looking into space for
minutes--and on Sundays for hours--at a time; and often she had watched
him as he lay on his back in the long grass, head on a hillock, hat down
over his eyes, while the smoke from his pipe came curling up from beneath
the rim. Also she had seen him more than once sitting with a letter
before him and gazing at it for many minutes together. She had also
noted that it was the same letter on each occasion; that it was a closed
letter, and also that it was unstamped. She knew that, because she had
seen it in his desk--the desk once belonging to her father, a sloping
thing with a green-baize top. Sometimes he kept it locked, but very