Then, without knowing why, hardly conscious of what was transpiring, he found that his glance was leaving the headstone, was turning from the grave.

Not only this, but his whole body was following the direction of his eyes.

Before he knew it, he was standing with his back to Angele's grave, was facing the north, facing the line of pear trees and the little valley where the Seed ranch lay.
At first, he thought this was because he had allowed his will to weaken, the concentrated power of his mind to grow slack.

And once more turning toward the grave, he banded all his thoughts together in a consummate effort, his teeth grinding together, his hands pressed to his forehead.
He forced himself to the notion that Angele was alive, and to this creature of his imagination he addressed himself: "Angele!" he cried in a low voice; "Angele, I am calling you--do you hear?
Come to me--come to me now, now." Instead of the Answer he demanded, that inexplicable counter-influence cut across the current of his thought.

Strive as he would against it, he must veer to the north, toward the pear trees.