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[1]
Interactive Applications Using
Matplotlib

Don't just see your data, experience it!

Benjamin V. Root

BIRMINGHAM - MUMBAI
Interactive Applications Using Matplotlib

Copyright © 2015 Packt Publishing

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written
permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embedded in
critical articles or reviews.

Every effort has been made in the preparation of this book to ensure the accuracy
of the information presented. However, the information contained in this book is
sold without warranty, either express or implied. Neither the author, nor Packt
Publishing, and its dealers and distributors will be held liable for any damages
caused or alleged to be caused directly or indirectly by this book.

Packt Publishing has endeavored to provide trademark information about all of the
companies and products mentioned in this book by the appropriate use of capitals.
However, Packt Publishing cannot guarantee the accuracy of this information.

First published: March 2015

Production reference: 1170315

Published by Packt Publishing Ltd.

Livery Place
35 Livery Street
Birmingham B3 2PB, UK.

ISBN 978-1-78398-884-6

www.packtpub.com
 Credits

Author Project Coordinator

Benjamin V. Root Harshal Ved

Reviewers Proofreaders
Kamran Husain Maria Gould
Nathan Jarus Lesley Harrison
Jens Hedegaard Nielsen Bernadette Watkins
Sergi Pons Freixes
Indexer
Acquisition Editors Monica Ajmera Mehta
Richard Gall
Owen Roberts Production Coordinator
Conidon Miranda
Content Development Editor
Shubhangi Dhamgaye
Cover Work
Conidon Miranda
Technical Editors
Tanvi Bhatt
Nanda Padmanabhan

Copy Editors
Roshni Banerjee
Gladson Monteiro
 About the Author

Benjamin V. Root has been a member of the Matplotlib development team

since 2010. His main areas of development have been the documentation and the
mplot3d toolkit, but now he focuses on code reviews and debugging. Ben is also an
active member of mailing lists, using his expertise to help newcomers understand
Matplotlib. He is a meteorology graduate student, working part-time on his PhD
dissertation. He works full-time for Atmospheric and Environmental Research, Inc.
as a scientific programmer.

I would like to acknowledge the entire Matplotlib development team

for their insightful responses to my questions while I was writing
this book. In particular, I would like to thank Michael Droettboom,
Eric Firing, Thomas Caswell, Phil Elson, and Ryan May. Thanks
also go to the members of the matplotlib users' list without whom I
would have never learned this tool in the first place and for whom I
wrote this book.

This book would not have been possible without the love and
support of my wife, Margaret. She put up with far more than she
should have, and for that, I am in her debt.

Last, but not least, I must acknowledge John Hunter, the creator
of Matplotlib and the man who included me into the development
team. Working with him and the rest of the team allowed me to
mature as a programmer and scientist, and directly resulted in me
attaining my current employment, thus starting my career.
 About the Reviewers

Nathan Jarus is a computer science PhD candidate at Missouri S&T. He regularly

uses Matplotlib to visualize and experiment with results. Prior to his graduate
studies, he spent several years developing data visualization tools for research
professors. Beyond visualization, he studies complex system modeling and control.

Jens Hedegaard Nielsen is a research software developer at University College

London, where he works on a number of different programming projects in relation
to research across the university. He is an active Matplotlib developer. He has a PhD
in experimental laser physics from Aarhus University, Denmark.
Sergi Pons Freixes is a telecommunications engineer and a PhD candidate with
experience on optical sensors and data analysis. For almost 10 years, he has been
working in international environments, performing both hands-on development
and research.

During his master's degree in telecommunications engineering, he engaged in

part-time research in the Department of Signal Theory and Communications at the
Polytechnic University of Catalonia (UPC), with the design and development of a
low-cost hyperspectral in-situ sensor. This experience stimulated him to start a PhD
at the same department. He obtained a grant from the Spanish National Research
Council (CSIC) and performed his predoctoral training at the Marine Technology
Unit in Barcelona, graduating for a master of advanced studies and leading and
supervising the master thesis of other university students, while continuing his
research on low-cost solutions oriented to increase the observational capabilities
for marine/oceanographic biological information systems.

In 2011, he gained a fellowship from the Spanish Ministry of Economy and

Competitiveness to expand his experience in international scientific organisms,
moving to the European Space Agency office in Italy and working on assessing the
viability of remote sensing coral monitoring. During his stay, he gained a contractor
position as performance simulation engineer for the Sentinel 3 satellite project at
the European Space Agency facilities in the Netherlands, being responsible for the
simulators and processors operation and maintenance.

In January 2015, he moved to San Diego, California, where he is currently finishing

his PhD while he pursues new opportunities.
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 Table of Contents
Preface v
Chapter 1: Introducing Interactive Plotting 1
Installing Matplotlib 1
Show() your work 3
Interactive navigation 3
Interactive plotting 4
Scripted plotting 5
Getting help 6
Gallery 6
Mailing lists and forums 6
From front to backend 7
Interactive versus non-interactive 7
Anti-grain geometry 8
Selecting your backend 8
The Matplotlib figure-artist hierarchy 9
Canvassing the figure 10
The menagerie of artists 13
Primitives 14
Collections 17
Summary 19
Chapter 2: Using Events and Callbacks 21
Making the connection 22
The big event 25
Breaking up is the easiest thing to do 31
Keymapping 34
Picking 38

[i]
Table of Contents

Data editing 41
User events 48
Editor events 49
Summary 54
Chapter 3: Animations 55
A short history 55
The fastest draw in the west 56
The animation module 57
Advanced animations 60
Event source 64
Timers 66
Blitting 68
Recipes 69
Tails 69
Fades 72
Saving animations 74
Notes about codecs and file formats 75
Simultaneous animations 77
How animations are saved 78
Session recorder 79
Summary 83
Chapter 4: Widgets 85
Built-in widgets 85
Slider 86
Button 89
Check buttons 92
Radio button 95
Lasso 99
LassoSelector 103
RectangleSelector 104
SpanSelector 108
Cursor 110
format_coord() 110
Third-party tools 113
mpldatacursor 114
Glue 114
Plot.ly, ggplot, prettyplotlib, and Seaborn 114
Summary 115

[ ii ]
 Table of Contents

Chapter 5: Embedding Matplotlib 117

The revelation 119
Through a glass, darkly 119
Tinker tailor soldier pylab_setup() 120
Canvas materials 121
Bars, menus, and sliders – four ways 122
GTK 122
Tkinter 127
wxWidgets 131
Qt 135
Matplotlib in your app 140
GTK 140
Tkinter 143
wxWidgets 144
Qt 146
Summary 147
Index 149

[ iii ]
 Preface
Why Matplotlib? Why Python, for that matter? I picked up Python for scientific
development because I needed a full-fledged programming language that made
sense. Too often, I felt hemmed in by the traditional tools in the meteorology field.
I needed a language that respected my time as a developer and didn't fight me
every step of the way. "Don't you find Python constricting?" asked a colleague who
was fond of bad puns. "No, quite the opposite," I replied, the joke going right over
my head.

Matplotlib is the same in this respect. Switching from traditional graphing tools of
the meteorology field to Matplotlib was a breath of fresh air. Not only were useful
programs being written using the Matplotlib library, but it was also easy to write
my own. Furthermore, I could write out modules and easily use them in both
the hardcopy generating scripts for my publications and for my data exploration
interactive applications. Most importantly, the Matplotlib library let me do what
I needed it to do.

I have been an active developer for Matplotlib since 2010 and I am still discovering
Matplotlib. It isn't that the library is insanely huge and unwieldy—it isn't. Instead,
Matplotlib appeals to all levels of expertise and interests. One can simply care
enough only to get a single plot displayed in three line of code and never think of the
library again. Or, one could assume control over every single minute plotting detail,
ensuring that everything is displayed "just right." And even when one does this and
thinks they have seen every single nook and cranny of the library, they will discover
some other feature that they have never seen before.

[v]
Preface

Matplotlib is 12 years old now. New plotting projects have cropped up—some
supplementing Matplotlib's design, while others trying to replace Matplotlib
entirely. However, there has been no slacking of interest in Matplotlib, not from the
users and definitely not from the developers. The new projects are interesting, and
as with all things open source, we try to learn from these projects. But I keep coming
back to this project. Its design, developers, and community of users are some of the
best and most devoted in the open source world.

The book you are reading right now is actually not the book I originally wanted to
write. The interactive aspect of Matplotlib is not my area of expertise. After some
nudging from fellow developers and users, I relented. I proceeded to rewrite the
only interactive application I had ever finished and published. Working through the
chapters, I tried to find better ways of doing the things I did originally, pointing out
major pitfalls and easy mistakes as I encountered them. It was a significant learning
experience for me, which was wholly unexpected.

I now invite you to discover Matplotlib for yourself. Whether it is the first time or
not, it certainly won't be the last.

What this book covers

Chapter 1, Introducing Interactive Plotting, covers basic figure-axes-artist hierarchy and
other Matplotlib essentials such as displaying the plot. It also introduces you to the
interactive Matplotlib figure.

Chapter 2, Using Events and Callbacks, provides Matplotlib's events and a callback
system to bring your figures to life. It also explains how you can extend it with
custom events, making the application truly interactive.

Chapter 3, Animations, deals with ArtistAnimation, FuncAnimation, and timers

to make animations of all types. It also deals with animations that can be saved
as movies.

Chapter 4, Widgets, covers built-in widgets such as buttons, checkboxes, selectors,

lassos, and sliders, which are all explained and demonstrated. Here, you'll also learn
about other useful third-party widgets and tools.

Chapter 5, Embedding Matplotlib, teaches you how to add GUI elements to an existing
Matplotlib application. Here you'll also see how to add your interactive Matplotlib
figure to an existing GUI application. Identical examples are presented using GTK,
Tkinter, wxWidgets, and Qt.

[ vi ]
 Preface

What you need for this book

At the absolute least, you will need the following Python packages installed on
your system: NumPy, SciPy, Basemap, and (of course) Matplotlib. To work on the
instructions presented in Chapter 5, Embedding Matplotlib, you will want to have at
least one of the following GUI toolkits installed: GTK, Tkinter (should come with
Python), wxWidgets, or Qt (version 4 is preferred; version 5 is supported only
recently for Matplotlib version 1.4). You will also need the corresponding Python
bindings for the GUI toolkits (some come with them by default).

Who this book is for

If you are a Python programmer who wants to do more than just see your data, this is
the book for you. It will explain the SciPy stack (that is, NumPy and Matplotlib) and
provide pointers to install them. Experience with GUI toolkits, such as wxPython, Qt,
or GTK+, is also not required, so this book can be an excellent complement to other
GUI programming resources. To understand the examples and explanations, you need
to know basic object-oriented programming terms and concepts.

Conventions
In this book, you will find a number of text styles that distinguish between different
kinds of information. Here are some examples of these styles and an explanation of
their meaning.

Code words in text, database table names, folder names, filenames, file extensions,
pathnames, dummy URLs, user input, and Twitter handles are shown as follows:
"We can include other contexts through the use of the include directive."

A block of code is set as follows:

import matplotlib.pyplot as plt
from matplotlib.collections import LineCollection
from tutorial import track_loader
tracks = track_loader('polygons.shp')
# Filter out non-tracks (unassociated polygons given trackID of -9)
tracks = {tid: t for tid, t in tracks.items() if tid != -9}

[ vii ]
Preface

When we wish to draw your attention to a particular part of a code block, the
relevant lines or items are set in bold:
polys = [p for p in cells.polygons]
for p in polys:
p.set_visible(True)
p.set_alpha(0.0)

def update(frame, polys):

for i, p in enumerate(polys):
alpha = 0.0 if i > frame else 1.0 / ((frame - i + 1)**2)
p.set_alpha(alpha)

ax.set_xlabel("Longitude")
ax.set_ylabel("Latitude")
strmanim = FuncAnimation(fig, update, frameCnt,
fargs=(polys,))
plt.show()

Any command-line input or output is written as follows:

$ pip install matplotlib

New terms and important words are shown in bold. Words that you see on the
screen, for example, in menus or dialog boxes, appear in the text like this: "Now click
on the Selection radio button and you will find that you can select a polygon again."

Warnings or important notes appear in a box like this.

Tips and tricks appear like this.

[ viii ]
 Preface

Reader feedback
Feedback from our readers is always welcome. Let us know what you think about
this book—what you liked or disliked. Reader feedback is important for us as it helps
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[ ix ]
Preface

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[x]
 Introducing Interactive
Plotting
A picture is worth a thousand words

The goal of any interactive application is to provide as much information as possible

while minimizing complexity. If it can't provide the information the users need,
then it is useless to them. However, if the application is too complex, then the
information's signal gets lost in the noise of the complexity. A graphical presentation
often strikes the right balance.

The Matplotlib library can help you present your data as graphs in your application.
Anybody can make a simple interactive application without knowing anything about
draw buffers, event loops, or even what a GUI toolkit is. And yet, the Matplotlib
library will cede as much control as desired to allow even the most savvy GUI
developer to create a masterful application from scratch. Like much of the Python
language, Matplotlib's philosophy is to give the developer full control, but without
being stupidly unhelpful and tedious.

Installing Matplotlib
There are many ways to install Matplotlib on your system. While the library used
to have a reputation for being difficult to install on non-Linux systems, it has come
a long way since then, along with the rest of the Python ecosystem. Refer to the
following command:
$ pip install matplotlib
Random documents with unrelated
content Scribd suggests to you:
Orange Trampleasure, and by the handsome fortune with which
popular opinion endowed her.
Old Tramplara was thought to be enormously rich, and to be
eager to marry his daughter well, and to be ready to pay for the
blood and position that would come to the family through a good
alliance.
Captain Trecarrel was not a man to feel deeply. He liked Orange,
and that Orange liked and admired him was obvious to his blue
eyes. But then, he was accustomed to be liked and admired, and he
had only to smile and look languishingly to draw to him any amount
of affection from any number of marriageable girls. He looked for
something more substantial than liking and admiration.
After much hesitation, Trecarrel proposed to Orange
Trampleasure and was accepted on the spot. But the proposal was
only the first scene in a long drama, and the second scene did not
pass with the same rapidity and success. Captain Trecarrel had no
intention of being married till he was quite satisfied as to the sum of
money Orange would bring with her. Old Tramplara spoke
grandiloquently, and made large promises of what he would leave
her when he was not himself in a position to enjoy his money. But
this was not what the Captain wanted—which was something
present, not prospective. At last he did get the old man to name a
very liberal dowry, and when he next asked in what shape this
dower would come, he discovered an eagerness on the part of his
prospective father-in-law to pay it in Patagonian securities. Now
Patagonian bonds were not at par. They had been declining very
steadily in the money market, and when the South American State
deferred meeting its coupons with punctuality, the drop had been
nearly to zero, for it was anticipated that Patagonia was meditating
repudiation.
Mr. Trampleasure supposed that the Captain was unaware of
this, but Trecarrel was not as innocent as his blue eyes led people to
suppose. He was one of those few men who know exactly on which
side their bread is buttered; and Captain Trecarrel knew further,
what very few people do know, how to eat bread and butter with
most satisfaction to himself. An adult eats his slice with the butter
uppermost, but a child turns the buttered side down. By so doing he
extracts from it the utmost enjoyment it is capable of giving, for by
this expedient the tongue is brought into immediate contact with the
butter. Captain Trecarrel was not going to eat his bread with thin
Patagonian scrape over it, instead of yellow English gold. Those
innocent blue eyes of his could see as far into a millstone as the
keen sloes of Mr. Trampleasure. Consequently, till that Patagonian
business was satisfactorily settled, Captain Trecarrel held aloof from
hymeneal felicity.
The arrival of Mirelle and her admission into the family at
Dolbeare were opportune. Captain Trecarrel was struck with her
beauty, but then, he was struck with the beauty of every girl whose
looks were pleasing. But what struck the Captain far more than her
beauty was the opportunity this arrival afforded him of rousing the
apprehensions of Orange and her father that he might slip through
the meshes of their net.
He resolved to pay his court to Mirelle, to exhibit a lively interest
in her, to wake up a little convenient jealousy in the bosom of
Orange, and to give the father clearly to understand that he himself
repudiated Patagonia.
 The curious mixture of simplicity and shrewdness in Mirelle
amused him. It was a real pleasure to him to converse with her, and
a particular pleasure to look into those deep eyes and speculate
what lay beneath.
Once a month a priest came to Trecarrel on a circuit through the
north of Cornwall, and said mass in the chapel near the house. On
these occasions Mirelle walked over to Trecarrel. Trecarrel lies, like
most old manor houses, in a hollow. A small stream dribbling
through the hollow constituted the only attraction which could lead a
gentleman to build his stately mansion in such a spot. A stately
mansion Trecarrel must have been in its prime. The great
banqueting hall was of hewn granite, with granite windows and
doorway and chimney-piece. A little chapel stood south of the hall,
also of cut granite. The mansion-house itself is, at the present date,
reduced to a fragment of the great house that once occupied three
sides of a quadrangle. At the time of which we are writing it was
more than dilapidated, it was falling into utter ruin. There was no
glass in many of the windows, and the roofs were breaking down.
Next to the hall the glory of Trecarrel was the gatehouse of granite,
with a richly sculptured doorway of the same intractable material,
moulded deeply, with strawberry leaves carved in the hollows of the
mouldings. The Trecarrel who gambled pulled down the gate-house
because coaches could not pass beneath the arch; but when he had
pulled it down he had not the power or the means to remove the
huge blocks, and so he left them encumbering the ground where
they had fallen, and there at the present day they lie, rankly
overgrown with nettles.
 Captain Trecarrel could not suffer Mirelle to walk home
unattended when she made her monthly pilgrimages to his chapel.
She was always pleased to see and converse with him. He was her
equal, a gentleman and a Catholic—the two qualities which made
them akin and separated them from the ignoble and unbelieving
around. In these walks the Captain told Mirelle the story of Sir Henry
Trecarrel and the building of Launceston Church, and the way in
which the work was arrested. He told her what his ancestor had
done and suffered in the civil wars, and he showed her one day in
the hall the sole reward he had received for his sacrifices. Mirelle
was able to sympathise with the misfortunes of the house; she also
represented a generous race, that had fought the Moors, had ruled a
county, coined its own money, and set up its own gallows. In that
last particular the Garcias and the Trecarrels had differed. The
Garcias had hung men, the Trecarrels had had much ado to keep
themselves from being hung.
The story of the self-sacrifice of the Trecarrels for Church and
King stirred the soul of Mirelle, ready to warm to all that savoured of
heroism; and she looked on the Captain as the noble representative
of a glorious line of confessors and martyrs. She fondly deemed him
made of the same stuff, ready to lay himself down on the altar if
need be. But no! Trecarrel was wholly free from the spirit of self-
sacrifice. He would not surrender his independence for five thousand
pounds in Patagonian bonds. During one of these walks the Captain
ascertained from Mirelle that her father had left her six thousand
pounds, not in Patagonian bonds, but in hard cash. Six thousand
pounds! That was one thousand above the sum that Orange was
promised. Six thousand pounds in coined gold, with his Majesty's
head on each piece, God bless him! Trecarrel's tone assumed more
tenderness, a softer light shone out of his celestial eyes, and he
slightly squeezed the arm that was on his own under the big
umbrella, as he paddled with Mirelle to Launceston under a Cornish
drizzle and through West Country mud.
That night the Captain did not sleep. He tossed on his bed. He
sat up and hammered the pillow into shape and put it under his
neck. Then he got up and drank cold water. Then he tried to count
sheep going through a gap in a hedge. All was in vain. He could not
sleep and he could not count the sheep, because his mind was
active. He was stung into wakefulness by the consideration whether
it would be possible for him to be off his engagement to Orange,
and on with one to Mirelle. It would not be consistent with his
honour as a gentleman and an officer (though only in the militia) to
become engaged to Mirelle before breaking with Orange. It would
also not be proper for him to break with Orange; but it would be
perfectly honourable for him so to conduct himself as to force her to
break with him. He made no doubt that Mirelle would have him. No
woman could refuse him, with his eyes and name, his profile and his
position. Besides, Mirelle manifestly liked him. She made no secret of
the pleasure she took in his society. Now the only means of effecting
a rupture with Orange was for him to pay marked attentions to
Mirelle, and to wane in his attentions to herself. Orange would then
speak to her mother, and the mother would communicate her
daughter's trouble to the father, and then a crisis would be attained.
The father would either break off the match, in which case he would
be free to address Mirelle, or, in his dread of losing such a son-in-
law, he would drop the Patagonians and offer ready money. Orange
and five thousand pounds; Mirelle with six! There was no comparing
the lots.
Captain Trecarrel turned the situation into an equation. As
Mirelle is to Orange, so is 6,000*l*. to x.

Mirelle x *x* = Orange x 6,000*l*.

M
or - = 6,000*l*.
O

Now Orange was of an inferior social grade, and this difference could
not be estimated under 1,000*l*. Then Orange had incumbrances, in
the shape of very vulgar parents and a cur of a brother. This could
not figure at less than 1,000*l*. Orange was plump, and plump girls
become obese women; a serious detriment that could only be
covered with another 1,000*l*. Mirelle was a Catholic, and her faith
was worth 1,000*l*.
The equation therefore stood thus:—

Mirelle + 6,000*l*. = Orange + 10,000*l*.

'Hah!' said Captain Trecarrel, as he hammered his pillow with both

fists. 'I'll not take Orange under ten thousand pounds, I'm
confounded if I will.'
It must not be supposed that Orange Trampleasure was
ignorant of the walks taken by the Captain with Mirelle. Captain
Trecarrel did not desire that she should remain in ignorance of them,
and when he escorted Mirelle home he came on with her to the
house to pay his respects to Mrs. Trampleasure, and inquire after her
cold in the head and her bronchial tubes. He usually remained on
such occasions for the early dinner, and spent the afternoon with the
girls in the garden-house when it rained, or strolling with them in
sunshine through the Castle grounds.
At these times he was civil to Orange, and even attentive, but
he let her plainly see that when engaged in conversation with her his
eyes and thoughts were roving, and roving in the direction of Mirelle.
Orange would not have been a woman, and a loving woman, if she
had not observed and been hurt by this.
Orange had set her heart on marrying him, not only because
she loved him, but also because she was ambitious. She had more
culture than her father and mother and brother, and she felt their
coarseness. She disliked their friends. She was a proud girl, and
when the prospect opened before her of becoming Mrs. Trecarrel,
she resolved to make this the means of shaking herself free from the
sordid society in which she had been forced to move, and to take
her place, as of right, in a class above it in culture, in traditions, and
in aspirations.
Orange volunteered to walk to Trecarrel with Mirelle on her
monthly expeditions, and the offer was frankly accepted.
Mirelle did not know that her cousin was engaged to Trecarrel,
she had not been let into the secret; Orange was not of a confiding
nature, and the intercourse between her and the Captain had of late
been strained. Mirelle regarded him as a friend of the family; she
rather wondered what he could find in the Trampleasures to make
him seek their society, but she entertained no suspicions of a nearer
tie than friendship.
The jealousy of Orange was roused. She became less
demonstrative in her affection towards Mirelle, but she was not
unkind. She harboured bitterness in her heart, but it was not
suffered to brim over her lips. The only token she gave of wrath and
jealousy was a heightened colour and a dangerous flicker in her eye,
whenever subjected to one of those slights which are only
perceptible to the eye of love. Trecarrel noticed this, and was
content. He would achieve his end by means strictly honourable.
Mirelle was unconscious and unsuspicious of what was going on
around her. She liked the Captain, she told Orange as much, without
colour rising in her transparent cheek or lowering her eye. She liked
Orange, who, if not cordial, was kind, and who proved a very
serviceable screen against the brutality of her father and brother.
That the Captain was playing her off upon Orange for his own selfish
purposes, and that deadly jealousy and hate against her were being
kindled in the bosom of her cousin—of this Mirelle was unsuspicious.

CHAPTER XIV.
UNDER THE HEARTH.

John Herring visited Joyce daily. He had no choice. She would allow
no one else to touch her bandages. He was impatient to prosecute
his journey, but was detained by this poor savage, who refused
doggedly to allow the doctor or Cicely to touch her arms. Herring
remonstrated, and insisted that he must go. Cicely Battishill
volunteered to take his place. Then Joyce became wild, she tore at
the rags with her teeth, and would have ripped them off and relaxed
the splints, and undone all that had been done for her broken bones,
had not Herring hastily promised to remain and attend to her daily,
and so with difficulty allayed her apprehension and anger. He was
particularly anxious to be in Exeter, but he could not risk the health
of Joyce by deserting her in this juncture. He was held captive at
West Wyke, held in captivity by Joyce's broken hands. The reason
why he was impatient to go forward was that he had been
summoned to Exeter to rejoin his regiment, then quartered there.
The morning following the accident he had applied for an extension
of leave, but no answer had come to his application. He knew that
he ought to be with his regiment. He would get into trouble for his
absence, and yet—he allowed himself to be detained. The call of
humanity was one he was unable to resist. He was good-natured,
that is—weak. The strong men are the selfish men. Herring's simple
and kindly heart was interested in Joyce, but perplexed and pained.
He had no experience of life, and no knowledge of its problems. He
had never before been brought in contact with a character utterly
rude and destitute of that elementary knowledge which we take for
granted is as universally diffused as the atmosphere. He sat under
the Giant's Table and talked to Joyce, asked her questions, and
endeavoured to draw out the thoughts of her clouded brain. But the
profound ignorance, the gross barbarism of her mind and manner of
thought amazed him.
He saw nothing of Old Grizzly, who, as Joyce expressed it,
'sloked away' whenever he came in sight.
 'Joyce,' said Herring one day, as he knelt by her, having just
bandaged her arms, 'do you know the difference between right and
wrong?'
The question was called forth by some words of the girl showing
a startling ignorance of the elements of morality.
'In coorse I do,' she answered; then sitting up on her bed of
heather, 'I'll tell'y how I comed to know. I were once in a turnip-field
fetching a turnip for our dinner. There were a wooddoo (dove)
running up an oak hard by, and he sings out, "Tak' two, Joyce, tak'
two;" and in an old holm tree sat a raven, and her shooked her head
and said, "Very wrong, Joyce, very wrong." But I minded more what
the wooddoo sed, and I took two. Then as I were climbing over the
hedge, I dropped one turnip back in the field whence I'd took 'n;
and the wooddoo called again "Tak' two, Joyce, tak' two." "So I will,"
sez I, and I pitches on my feet again in the field where the turnip
had fallen to, and as I picked 'n up, in at the gate comed Farmer
Freeze, and he seed me and set his dog Towzer on me, and my legs
be scored now where Towzer set his teeth in me. After this I knowed
never to believe wooddoos no more when they sez "Tak' two." The
raven were right. I shud ha' tooked one or three or five. I knows
now that it be wrong to take even numbers of aught, and right to
take odd.[1] For you sees,' she continued earnestly, 'if I had taken
only one turnip, I'd ha' been over the hedge and away avore Farmer
Freeze comed in; but as I minded the wooddoo, and waited to take
two, I were tore cruel bad by Towzer.'

[1] This story was told the author by a poor Devonshire labourer. He believed he
had understood the language of the birds.
Herring looked in her face with wonder.
'Joyce,' he said, 'is this possible? Pray, have you ever heard of
God?'
'Who be he?'
'He is above the sky.'
'What, over the clouds, do'y mean?'
'Yes.'
'I've seed 'n scores and scores o' times.' (Here we must note
that by this expression Joyce meant 'any number of times.' She
could not count above ten, the number of her fingers, and a score
was her highest reckonable number, for that was the number of her
fingers and toes.) 'You mean the sun as goes running everlasting
after the moon; she be his wife, I reckon.'
'Why so?' asked Herring, with a smile.
'Becos her be always a trying to get out of his way.'
'Did your father ill-treat your mother?' he asked.
'In coorse he did, though I can't remember much about it. Her
was his wife, and he had a right to.'
'Do you mean that he beat and kicked her, as he has beaten
and kicked you?'
'Kicked!' echoed Joyce. 'Who ever sed as he kicked mother or I.
It be gentlefolks and wrastlers as kick; us has nothing on our toes,
and so us don't kick for fear of hurting 'em.'
'Does your father often beat you?'
'As he likes, but that don't matter now.'
'Why not?'
'Becos I don't belong to 'n any more.'
 'What! emancipated at last, Joyce?'
'I belongs to you.'
'To me!' Herring drew back, staggered by the thought.
'A coorse I do. Vaither a'most broked me to pieces, and I'd a
died, but you mended me up and made me to live again. So it
stands to reason that I don't belong to vaither no more, but belong
to you. 'Tes clear as a moor stream. I can see the reason on it as
sartain as I can a trout in a brook. I've been a thinking it over and
over, and I never could reckon it right out. Then, one night mother
began to grub her way up by thicky stone. I seed her grey hairs
coming out o' the ground, and I thought 'twere moss; but after
some'ut white and round like a turnip comes, and I sed to myself,
"How ever comes a turnip to be growing here, under the Giant's
Table?" Presently I seed her eyes acoming up, and then I knowed it
were mother. Then I went over and I helped her wi' a rabbit's
legbone. I scratched the earth away, so as her could get her nose
and mouth out of the ground, and her were snuffling like a horned
owl.'
'My dear Joyce, you were dreaming.'
'It were true—true as I see you here.'
'But, Joyce, how could you have helped her out of the ground,
as you say, with your arms broken?'
Joyce was puzzled. Like other savages, she had not arrived at
that point of enlightenment in which dream and reality are
distinguished.
'I don't know nothing about that,' said Joyce, 'but it be true
what I ses, I know that very well. Let me go on. At last when her
could speak plain, her sed, "Joyce, you belong no more to Grizzly,
you belong to the young maister." So I sez to her, "How can that
be?" Then her answers, "You mind the old iron crock as were
chucked away by the Battishills. They'd a broke 'n, and wanted 'n no
more. Then your vaither found 'n and mended 'n up somehow.
There her hangs now wi' turnips and cabbidge a stewing in her over
the fire. Do thicky crock belong to the Battishills now any more? No,
her don't, they broke 'n and chucked 'n away. Her belongs to Old
Grizzly for becos he took 'n and patched 'n up. That be reason," sed
my mother, "for sartain." And what her said be true and right. So I
belong to you.'
'But I decline the honour, Joyce,' said Herring, laughing.
'Will you beat and break me and cast me away, like as did
vaither?'
'I beat and hurt you! God forbid, my poor child.'
'Then till you does, I belongs to'y—that's sartain!'
She laid herself down on the cushions with the action and tone
of voice that implied the matter was concluded past contradiction.
Here was a state of affairs! A state of affairs sufficiently
startling. A few weeks ago John Herring had been his own master,
with no one depending on him, and without responsibility. Now he
was in a measure responsible for three girls. Mirelle, it is true, had
asserted her independence, but she had nevertheless imposed on
him obligations. Cicely made no scruple of declaring that she relied
on him for direction, not to be got from a father never very
dependable, and now enfeebled in mind and body. Joyce now
informed him that she had transferred her allegiance to him from
her father, and he had seen so far into her dark mind as to perceive
that what she said she meant, and what she meant she acted on.
 'Here,' said Joyce, 'you put your hand on my elbow.'
'Why on your elbow?'
'I can feel there what I want to feel. My hands be as hard as my
feet, and they don't feel much. When I wants to know if the porridge
be scalding, or whether I can eat 'n, I don't put a finger in, I put my
elbow. Now do as I ax'y. Put your hand there.'
She made Herring place his hand above the splints on the
elbow. Then she fixed her eyes on him and asked, 'Wot's her name?'
'Whose name?'
'Her wi' the white face.'
'What—Mirelle!' The name dropped involuntarily from his lips.
'You may take your hand away,' she said, 'I know what I wanted
to know.'
'What did you want to know, Joyce?—the name?'
'Ah! I wanted to know more nor that; and I've a learned all in a
minute.' She paused, still intently watching him. Presently she asked,
'Where did you take her to? Where do you live? Did'y take her to
your own home?'
'No, Joyce, of course I did not.'
'Why of course? You likes her more than any other.'
'I—I—Joyce! are you daft?'
'I bain't daft,' answered the girl. 'What I've a found out I know.
My elbow told me the truth. When you had your hand on my arm
one day I said to'y something about Miss Cicely, and your hand were
quiet as if I spoke about a tatie to one wi' a full belly. But when I
axed about the Whiteface—I cannot mind her name—then you gave
a start, and your hand shocked. We'm friends, you and I, and you
won't hide nothing from me. Where be Whiteface to now?'
 'I took her to some relations—cousins of hers.'
'Ah! we've folks (kindred) too out to Nymet, but ours be reg'lar
savages. We have clothes to our backs, and taty ground, and a new
take. I reckon Whiteface's folk be of other sort.'
'Of course they are. She is comfortable and well cared for by
them.'
'Why didn't they come and fetch her away when her father
broke his neck, instead of leaving you to take care of her and take
her away?'
That was not a question Herring could easily answer.
Joyce did not wait for a reply. 'No,' she went on, ''twere you as
cared for her and did iverything for her, as you've a cared for and
done iverything for me. But me you think on just now and then, and
her you'll be thinking on night and day, I know that very well. It be
natural, and I say nort against it. And how be't wi' her I wonder. Did
her tell you afore her left how good you'd been, and how her'd niver
niver forget what you'd a done for her?'
'No, Joyce.'
'Didn't her then look you in the face as I do now, and if her
didn't say it in words, let you see in her eyes that her thought and
felt it?'
'No, she did not look at me at all.'
'See there now!' exclaimed Joyce. 'I be nort but a poor savage,
but I be better nor her. I know what be right and vitty (fitting)—and
her don't.'
'Of course you know what is right, with the guidance of
wooddoves.'
 'It were the raven, not the wooddoo,' said Joyce, eagerly. 'The
wooddoo told me wrong. The wooddoo sed "Tak two, Joyce, tak
two." But that's no count. It'll come right wi' Whiteface and you in
the end. Her'll find them folk of hers not like you, always a thinking
and caring for her, and then her'll remember you and think on you,
just as I do lying here. Be you a going?'
Herring had risen from his knee as if to leave.
'Stay a bit longer,' pleaded Joyce. 'Do'y know what it be after it
hev been raining all day, and cold and wisht, out comes the sun
afore he goes down, and the clouds roll away, and Dartmoor seems
to be all alight, and then for the glory and the beauty and the
warmth you forget all the time o' cold and darkness and rain? It be
so wi' me. Here I lies and I sees none but vaither, and her grumbles
becos I can't work, and when vaither bain't here I sees nobody, and
it be wisht, I reckon, till you comes; and then I be that full o'
gladness and joy I remember no more the time o' loneness and pain
and trouble. You'll bide a bit longer, won't'y?'
'I really cannot stay, Joyce, with the best will to pleasure you, I
cannot.' The demonstrative admiration and affection of the poor
creature confounded and distressed him.
'I've more to tell'y,' Joyce continued. 'I've that to tell'y which be
most partikler. Do'y know what vaither did to make mother lie quiet?
He gived her some'ut. But her bain't no more a child to be amused
wi' toys like them. May be for a night or two her sat and turned 'em
over and was kept quiet wi' looking at 'em. But it bain't the likes o'
them as will make mother still and sleep o' nights, instead of rooting
about in the earth under the table like a mole.'
'What does she want, Joyce?'
 'Her wants you to do it. You mun lift the hearthstone and say
glory rallaluley, and Our Vaither—kinkum kum over her. Her told me
so herself. I cannot do it. I don't know the words. I've just picked up
a word here and there when the Methodies ha' been out on the
down, singing and preaching, and hugging and praying. You can say
kinkum kum over mother and make her lie quiet and sleep.'
Poor dark soul! Joyce had no knowledge of God, and very dim,
perverted conceptions of right and wrong. Her only faith was in
troubled spirits, and that was no faith, but a confusion of mind
between death and life, and dreaming visions and sight when
waking. Her sole idea of prayer was a spell to lay the restless dead.
Herring's heart was softened by compassion for the girl. She
watched the expression of his face very intently, somewhat
mistrustfully, fearful of a refusal, and, worse than all, of ridicule. But
though Herring did meditate refusal, no thought of the ludicrous in
her request stirred a muscle of his mouth. He was grieved for her,
and he was touched by her ignorant simplicity.
'Poor Joyce!' he said, and knelt down by her again. 'Poor Joyce!'
Then he tried to soothe her and turn her thoughts into another
channel. She, however, persisted in forcing the task on him of saying
sacred words over a dead and buried woman. When Joyce had made
up her mind to anything she was inflexible. Herring was being forced
into one position, then into another, for which he was unsuited.
Joyce had made him her doctor, her nurse, her guardian, and now
she made him her priest. He was good-natured, and good nature is
weakness.
After holding back he at length, out of pity, and to humour the
headstrong girl, did as she required. She made him raise the
hearthstone, and trig it up with a piece of granite. He could not lift
the stone out of its place, though Old Grizzly had been able-armed
enough to do this unaided. Then Herring knelt and gravely said a
prayer—the prayer.
Joyce was satisfied.
'That be right,' she said. 'Now mother don't want her toys no
more. There be a stick wi' a crook to the end i' thicky corner.'
'I see there is.'
'Fetch 'n, and scrabble with 'n under the hearthstone.'
'What for?'
'Do as I tell'y. You'll see what for fast enough. Hav'y got the
stick? Now thrust it well in, and poke about till you comes to some'ut
hard.
Herring groped as bidden, rather uneasy in his mind at what he
was doing, lest he should rake out the bones of the dead woman.
'Do'y feel nort?'
'Yes; there is something there hard and heavy.'
'Vang 'n in to'y.'
Herring obeyed. There certainly was something there. As the
crook struck it, it sounded like a metal box. After some working with
the stick he managed to get it out. It was a small box of japanned
iron, which had been locked, but had been battered till the lock had
given way. The lid accordingly was loose.
'Open it,' said Joyce. 'Vaither found 'n the night o' the axidenk.
He found 'n in one of the boxes that had gone scatt wi' falling from
the carriage. He thought there might be some'ut in him, and so he
tooked 'n away and brought 'n here, and wi' a bit of stone knacked
the lock all abroad. I see 'n do it. That were after he'd a broke me to
pieces, When I came by my wits I seed old vaither sitting by the fire
and working till he'd a got the lid started, and then he looked in and
seed what were there, and he sed he'd give me some if I'd take 'em.
But they wos no good to me, and I couldn't a done nort wi' 'em with
both my arms broke. I couldn't move my fingers, and I were that
deadly ill I didn't care for nort but to lie quiet and die right on end.
So then, after a bit, vaither said he knowed what he'd do wi' 'em as
they were no good to he. He'd give 'n to mother, her'd play wi' 'em
o' nights and be quiet. So he heaved up the hearthstone—vaither be
a deal stronger than you—and he shoved the box under, just over
where mother's heart be. There, look'y what brave fine things they
be.'
Herring had opened the box. He looked in in speechless
amazement. Then he raised a tray and looked further, and beneath
the tray was more still.
Presently he found his tongue, drew a heavy breath, and said,
'Good heavens, Joyce, these are diamonds. There are thousands of
pounds worth of diamonds here.'
'They be brave shiney stones.'
'They are diamonds.'
'Well, you may take 'em. They belongs o' rights to the
Whiteface. You can take 'em and give 'em to her or keep 'em
yourself, just as you likes.'

CHAPTER XV.
EHEU, BUBONES!
When Balboa, from a peak in Darien, discovered an ocean
untroubled by waves, unstained by the shadow of a cloud, he named
it the Pacific. John Herring's exploration of life was the reverse of
Balboa's course; he had left behind him the Pacific Ocean, in which
he had hitherto sailed, and he had sighted the sea of storms. Balboa
had little idea of the extent of the watery tract he discovered, and
Herring had but a faint suspicion of the nature and fretfulness of the
sea on which he was about to embark. A few weeks ago the
problem of life had seemed to him a simple addition sum; he was
about to discover that it consisted in the extraction of surds, which
when extracted prove dead and dry symbols. 'Vanity of vanities,' said
the Preacher, after he had worked at the sum all his days; the
conclusion of the whole matter is, 'all is vanity.'
With a sense of alarm Herring became aware that Joyce had put
into his hands more destinies than her own. Mirelle's future was
contained in a little casket of which the lock was broken, and which
was placed at his unchallenged disposal. The fortune that had been
confided to the trustee under the will was certain to be engulfed as
the ship that strikes the Goodwins. Here, however, was the bulk of
her property, providentially saved from the grip of Tramplara, and
lodged in honest hands. What was he to do with this? Was he
justified in retaining it till Mirelle should need it, and then delivering
it to her untouched, or was he bound to deliver it to him who was
constituted legal trustee by the will of her father?
The conflict stood between moral and legal obligation. It was a
question whether, if he acted in accordance with legal obligation, he
would not be morally guilty were Mirelle's entire fortune made away
with.
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