"Ever since my father retired from Boston to purchase this hill and the
wilderness surrounding it," she went on, "ever since he came here to live
a hermit's life--a life devoted solely to painting landscapes--I also
have lived here all alone with him.
"That is three years, now. And from the very beginning--from the very
first day of our arrival, somehow or other I was conscious that there
was something abnormal about this corner of the world."
She bent forward, lowering her voice a trifle:
"Have you noticed," she asked, "that so many things seem to be _circular_
out here?"
"Circular?" I repeated, surprised.
"Yes. That crater is circular; so is the bottom of it; so is this
plateau, and the hill; and the forests surrounding us; and the mountain
ranges on the horizon."
"But all this is natural."
"Perhaps. But in those woods, down there, there are, here and there,
great circles of crumbling soil--_perfect_ circles a mile in diameter."
"Mounds built by prehistoric man, no doubt."
She shook her head:
"These are not prehistoric mounds."
"Why not?"
"Because they have been freshly made."
"How do you know?"
"The earth is freshly upheaved; great trees, partly uprooted, slant at
every angle from the sides of the enormous piles of newly upturned earth;
sand and stones are still sliding from the raw ridges."
She leaned nearer and dropped her voice still lower:
"More than that," she said, "my father and I both have seen one of these
huge circles _in the making_!"
"What!" I exclaimed, incredulously.
"It is true. We have seen several. And it enrages father."
"Enrages?"
"Yes, because it upsets the trees where he is painting landscapes, and
tilts them in every direction. Which, of course, ruins his picture; and
he is obliged to start another, which vexes him dreadfully."