een understood, by anybody.

But other eyes, similarly occupied, were plainer to read.

Jim Urquhart's, of course. Jim--as ineligible for the most coveted post
in the Western District as he well could be, by reason of the family
already depending upon him, together with the load of debt left along
with it by his deceased father, a "pal" of Mr Pennycuick's in the gay
and good old times--still contrived to bring himself within the radius
of Deborah's observation whenever occasion served. And being there,
although silent and keeping to the background, his gaze followed her as
the gaze of an opossum follows a light on a dark night, with the same
still absorption. Nothing but her returning gaze could divert it from
its mark. It was so natural, so calmly customary, so unobtrusive, that
nobody cared to attach importance to it.

He sat now, far back against the green brocade hangings of a corner
window, where he could see the beloved profile in the middle of the
room. His big, work-roughened hands clasped his big, bony knees, and
his long, loose body hung forward out of the little chair that was
never built for such as he; and he seemed given over to Rose
Pennycuick's tale of the pony that had corns, and the cat that had been
mangled in a cruel rabbit trap. He gave her wise counsel regarding the
treatment of these poor things, his deep, drawling voice an unnoticed
instrument in the orchestra of tongues; but his crude-featured,
sunburnt face held itself steadily in the one direction. From the day
that he came to manhood his soul had kept the same attitude towards the
woman to whom the profile belonged. But he never alluded to the fact,
save in this silent way.

Then there was the Reverend Bennet Goldsworthy, "Church of England
minister", as his style and title ran. Privately, Mr Pennycuick did not
like him; but for the sake of the priestly office, and as being a
parishioner, he gave him the freedom of the house, and much besides.
The parson's buggy never went empty away. Redford hams, vegetables,
poultry, butter and eggs, etc., kept his larder supplied. His
horse-feed was derived therefrom; also his horse; also his cow. When
his cow began to fail, he promptly mentioned the fact--he was
mentioning it now to Mary Pennycuick. "Yes," he was saying, A PROPOS of
his motherless little girl--whom he often brought to Redford for change
of air, leaving her to the care of the sisters until convenient to him
to reclaim her--"yes, it wil