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"They are done," said Marty, "and lying in the cart-house."
"Done!" he repeated. "Your father has not been too ill to work
after all, then?"
She made some evasive reply. "I'll show you where they be, if you
are going down," she added.
They went out and walked together, the pattern of the air-holes in
the top of the lantern being thrown upon the mist overhead, where
they appeared of giant size, as if reaching the tent-shaped sky.
They had no remarks to make to each other, and they uttered none.
Hardly anything could be more isolated or more self-contained than
the lives of these two walking here in the lonely antelucan hour,
when gray shades, material and mental, are so very gray. And yet,
looked at in a certain way, their lonely courses formed no
detached design at all, but were part of the pattern in the great
web of human doings then weaving in both hemispheres, from the
White Sea to Cape Horn.
The shed was reached, and she pointed out the spars. Winterborne
regarded them silently, then looked at her.


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