Jane did not answer; only sighed and stood looking on the ground.

'A fine pickle there's in there.' Martin flung a hand towards the house. His voice came angry. 'A fine thing, at this hour o' the day, for a man to go pickin' his steps through his own kitchen. A pretty business to find one's mother slavin' in her old age, an' you out here amusin' yourself. What d' you mean by it?' said Martin, loud and wrathfully.

Jane stood silent, her face blanching in the sunshine.

'Answer me.

What d' you mean by it?' 'I-I don't know, Martin. I'm sorry. I can't help it.'

're

'But you can help it. I won't have it. I've had patience long enough. I know how you feelin', I know—' Martin's voice softened; he came nearer. 'Look here, Jane. I don't want to be unreasonable. But just ask yourself if you think you 're doin' right. Are you,

now?'

Jane tried to speak, but words failed her. She sighed and fell to scraping the clay with her boot. Martin went on.

'D' you think it's right to let things go on as they are? The house neglected; everything higgledy-piggledy; yourself-look at the figure you are,' cried Martin. 'Just like any beggar-woman! Is that how I'm wishful to see you, I ask? Is this the kind o' work -this an' all the other work you've been partial to o' late-that I'd wish you to do? Drudgin' an' sloppin', trailin' from one tub to another; is that fit occupation for wife o' mine? Look at your hands. Look at your hair. Look at the whole rig o' you. Look at you standin' there, an' never answerin' me a word. Ah,' cried Martin, turning away, 'I'm weary of it-heart weary.'

Then Jane spoke. Martin,' she said. Martin.'

'Well?'

'I can't help it, Martin. 'Deed an' word, I can't. I do try. I strive to be as I used to be -but I can't. Everything is changed. I have no heart. Always and ever I keep thinkin' the one thing-always and ever.'

'An' have I no thoughts?' Martin swung round. 'Have I no feelin's?'

'I'll give you everything. I'll bear anything. Only,' cried Martin, spreading wide his hands, for God's sake be different to me. I ask little. Show me a different face sometimes; give me a laugh and a word now and then; stop your moilin' an' drudgin'. Think what you will . . . only don't forget who I am, an' what you are, an' what's expected of you. You hear me, Jane?'

'I do, Martin.'

'An' you'll heed?'

'I will, Martin.'

'That's right. An' now, like a good woman, put down that spade an' go and make yourself respectable. And let this be the last time I'll have to speak to you.'

Jane crossed through the sunshine, going slowly and heavily, stood the spade against the garden wall, and went out through the gateway into the yard. Martin watched her go, hands clasped behind him and a frown on his

brow. She looked much the same as one morning in spring-time she had looked, in those old days, so far away now, of her lesser trouble. Then Martin had taken her in his arms.

he did not.

Now

J

CHAPTER XI

ANE took heed. There was disorder in

the kitchen no more. The luncheon

basket went to the fields without fail. She ceased drudging in yard and garden. When the rougher work of the house was done she made herself respectable, as Martin had bidden, summoned cheerfulness to her face and bore herself bravely. At table she kept down her thought, talked a little, and sometimes laughed. In the evenings she knitted, or read in the Bible, or sat with the Mother in the porch till twilight had gone; occasionally stood by Martin as he leant over the lawn gate smoking and pondering, at intervals went down the slope and sat awhile with Hannah and Maria by the old hearthstone, once or twice, in those long calm evenings of high summer-time, slipped through the fields, seated herself on a bank, and nursed her thought in peace beneath the stars. On Thursdays she drove