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"Is this your first visit to Doleham?" she asked, knowing that her thoughts could tell her no more than her eyes.

"Oh, yes. I've never seen it before. Charming old place, isn't it?"

"Indeed it is. I've always loved the view from this terrace."

The secretary's eyes traveled casually over the blue smoky pool that was the Doleham Valley at twilight.

"Yes, it's charming—when you can see it," she added with a laugh.

"But you can see it," said Lesley earnestly, leaning toward her and pointing into the dusk. "You can see the river shining like a silver string. And that's Furnace Wood beside it. The Cheynells had a forge here once, you know. And those lights are Waters Farm, and that light beyond must be Sweetwillow. . . . Yes, I can see the white cowls of the oasts sitting there like little doves."

"You must have good eyes," said the secretary with another laugh. Her own eyes seemed to be trying to catch Anne's as if to share a joke. But Anne could never hear Lesley talk like this without a sensation of pride and pity—pride that for all her preference for the rootless, her own roots were so deep in her own soil; pity that she grew there alone, the last tree in the wood. Rosamund was amazed to see tears fill the eyes she sought.