"And where is that?"
"Down here, sir."
"Would you put us up?"
"Oh! I think we would."
"Will you show us the way?"
"Yes, Sir."
He limped on, silent, and Garton took up the catechism.
"Are you a Devonshire girl?"
"No, Sir."
"What then?"
"From Wales."
"Ah! I thought you were a Celt; so it's not your farm?"
"My aunt's, sir."
"And your uncle's?"
"He is dead."
"Who farms it, then?"
"My aunt, and my three cousins."
"But your uncle was a Devonshire man?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Have you lived here long?"
"Seven years."
"And how d'you like it after Wales?"
"I don't know, sir."
"I suppose you don't remember?"
"Oh, yes! But it is different."
"I believe you!"
Ashurst broke in suddenly: "How old are you?"
"Seventeen, Sir."
"And what's your name?"
"Megan David."
"This is Robert Garton, and I am Frank Ashurst. We wanted to get on to
Chagford."
"It is a pity your leg is hurting you."
Ashurst smiled, and when he smiled his face was rather beautiful.
Descending past the narrow wood, they came on the farm suddenly-a long,
low, stone-built dwelling with casement windows, in a farmyard where
pigs and fowls and an old mare were straying.
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