eyes, short neck and purplish complexion; he is asthmatic, and has a very courteous, autocratic manner.  His clothes are made of Harris tweed—­except on Sundays, when he puts on black—­a seal ring, and a thick gold cable chain.  There’s nothing mean or small about John Ford; I suspect him of a warm heart, but he doesn’t let you know much about him.  He’s a north-country man by birth, and has been out in New Zealand all his life.  This little Devonshire farm is all he has now.  He had a large “station” in the North Island, and was much looked up to, kept open house, did everything, as one would guess, in a narrow-minded, large-handed way.  He came to grief suddenly; I don’t quite know how.  I believe his only son lost money on the turf, and then, unable to face his father, shot himself; if you had seen John Ford, you could imagine that.  His wife died, too, that year.  He paid up to the last penny, and came home, to live on this farm.  He told me the other night that he had only one relation in the world, his granddaughter, who lives here with him.  Pasiance Voisey—­old spelling for Patience, but they pronounce, it Pash-yence—­is sitting out here with me at this moment on a sort of rustic loggia that opens into the orchard.  Her sleeves are rolled up, and she’s stripping currants, ready for black currant tea.  Now and then she rests her elbows on the table, eats a berry, pouts her lips, and, begins again.  She has a round, little face; a long, slender body; cheeks like poppies; a bushy mass of black-brown hair, and dark-brown, almost black, eyes; her nose is snub; her lips quick, red, rather full; all her motions quick and soft.  She loves bright colours.  She’s rather like a little cat; sometimes she seems all sympathy, then in a moment as hard as tortoise-shell.  She’s all impulse; yet she doesn’t like to show her feelings; I sometimes wonder whether she has any.  She plays the violin.

It’s queer to see these two together, queer and rather sad.  The old man has a fierce tenderness for her that strikes into the very roots of him.  I see him torn between it, and his cold north-country horror of his feelings; his life with her is an unconscious torture to him.  She’s a restless, chafing thing, demure enough one moment, then flashing out into mocking speeches or hard little laughs.  Yet she’s fond of him in her fashion; I saw her kiss him once when he was asleep.  She obeys him generally—­in a way as if she couldn’t breathe while she was doing it.  She’s had a queer sort of education—­history, geography, elementary mathematics, and nothing else; never been to school; had a few lessons on the violin, but has taught herself most of what she knows.  She is well up in the lore of birds, flowers, and insects; has three cats, who follow her about; and is full of pranks.  The other day she called out to me, “I’ve something for you.  Hold out your hand and shut your eyes!” It was a large, black slug!  She’s the child of the old