He wondered how many came to the lonely house in the valley, but did not question her for fear of what she would reply. He guessed she was an uncanny woman loving the dark because it was dark. He was too old to question the secrets of darkness, and now, with the black suit torn and wet and his thin hands bound with the bandages of the stranger woman, he felt older than ever. The winds of the morning might blow him down, and the sudden dropping of the dark be blind in his eyes. Rain might pass through him as it passes through the body of a ghost. A tired, white-haired old man, he sat under the window, almost invisible against the panes and the white cloth of the chair.

Soon the meal was ready, and Mr. Owen came in unwashed from the garden.

Shall I say grace? asked Mr. Davies when all three were seated around the table.

Mrs. Owen nodded.

O Lord God Almighty, bless this our meal, said Mr. Davies. Looking up as he continued his prayer, he saw that Mr. and Mrs. Owen had closed their eyes. We thank Thee for the bounties that Thou hast given us. And he saw that the lips of Mr. and Mrs. Owen were moving softly. He could not hear what they said, but he knew that the prayers they spoke were not his prayers.

Amen, said all three together.

Mr. Owen, proud in his eating, bent over the plate as he had bent over the complaining weeds. Outside the window was the brown body of the earth, the green skin of the grass, and the breasts of the Jarvis hills; there was a wind that chilled the animal earth, and a sun that had drunk up the dews on the fields; there was creation sweating out of the pores of the trees; and the grains of sand on faraway seashores would be multiplying as the sea rolled over them. He felt the coarse foods on his tongue; there was a meaning in the rind of the meat, and a purpose in the lifting of food to mouth. He saw, with a sudden satisfaction, that Mrs. Owen’s throat was bare.