The evening sun touched the western sea, and flared up in a spout of fire. Then Thomasine rose to her feet. Her red hair had fallen, and she bent her arms behind her, to do it up. Gorgeous that hair was in the evening sun, it seemed itself to be on fire, to be incandescent in every hair, and her attitude as she stood on the step was grand, her vigorous, graceful form, her splendid proportions were shown in perfection, with bosom expanded, and her hands behind her head collecting and tying and twisting the fire that rained off it. The evening sun was full on her, and filled her eyes that she could see nothing; but her handsome face was shown illuminated as a lamp against the cold grey walls of the corn-chamber. Her shadow was cast up the steps and against the door, a shadow that had no blackness in it, but the purple of the plum. “Tamsin! my word, you are on fire!” She started, let go her hair, and it fell about her, enveloping her shoulders and arms in flame. Then she put one hand above her eyes, and looked to see who addressed her. “You here, Archelaus! What has brought you to this lost corner of the world, this time o’ day?” “You, of course, Tamsin, what else?” “I wish you’d choose a better time than when I’m doing up my hair.” “I could not wish a better time than when you are in a blaze of glory.” The young man who spoke was Archelaus Tubb, son of the captain of the slate quarry. He was a simple, good-humoured, not clever young man. Strongly built, with sparkling eyes and a merry laugh, he was just such a fellow as would have made his way in the world, had he been endowed with wits. He was not absolutely stupid, but he was muddle-headed. He succeeded in nothing that he undertook. He had been apprenticed to a carpenter, and at the expiration of three years was unable even to make a gate. He tried his hand at gardening, and dug graves for potatoes, and put in bulbs upside down. He had faculties, but was incapable of applying them, or was too careless to call them together and concentrate them on his work. There seemed small prospect of his earning wage above that of a day-labourer. He had fair hair, an honest face, always on the alert for a laugh. As he had been unqualified for any trade, his father had given him work in the quarry, but therein he earned but a labourer’s wage, fourteen shillings a week. Thomasine reseated herself on the lowest step but one, and put her feet on the lowest, and crossed her hands on her lap. “Arkie,” said she; “I am going away from Court, the life here is too dull for me. I want to see the world.” “Where are you going, Tamsin?” “Not to bury myself in a place where nothing is doing, again.” “Nothing doing! There is plenty of work on a farm.” “Work!” scorned Thomasine. “Who wants work now? not I—I want to go where there are murders and burglaries and divorces—into a place where there is life.” “Queer sort of life that,” said Archelaus, casting himself down on the lowest step.