Whims and
moods were proper to her condition, so the farmer maintained; but the fancy
of eternally sequestering herself, the conceit of regarding as friends
those ancient stones of the moor and crossroads, was beyond his power to
appreciate. To Mary such conduct presented even greater elements of
mystery. Yet the fact faced them, and the crosses came in time to be one of
the few subjects which Joan cared to talk upon. Even then it was to her
uncle alone she opened her heart concerning them: Mary never unlocked the
inner nature of her cousin.
"I got names o' my awn for each of 'em," Joan confessed, "an' I seem they
do knaw my comin' an' my secrets an' my troubles. They teach me the force
o' keepin' my mouth shut; an' much mixin' wi' other folks arter the silence
o' the stones 'mazes me--men an' wummen do chatter so."
"An' so did you, lassie, an' weern't none the worse. Us doan't hear your
purty voice enough now."
"'Tis better thinkin' than talkin', Uncle Thomas. I abbun nort to talk
'bout, you see, but a power o' things to think of. The auld stones speaks
to me solemn, though they can't talk. They'm wise, voiceless things an'
brings God closer. An' me, an' all the world o' grass an' flowers, an' the
lil chirruping griggans [Footnote: Grasshoppers.] do seem so young beside
'em; but they'm big an' kind. They warm my heart somethin' braave; an' they
let the gray mosses cling to 'em an' the dinky blue butterflies open an'
shut their wings 'pon 'em, an' the bramble climb around theer arms.
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