“Let us try to sit on the same step,” said Archelaus, “and then we can discuss the matter together, better than as we are, with one turning the back on the other.” “There is not room, Arkie.” “I’ll try it at all events,” said he, as he got up and seated himself beside her. “Now we are together, and can keep steady if one puts an arm round the other.” “I will not be held by you,” said she, and mounted to the step above; then she burst out laughing, and pointed. “Do y’ look there,” she said, “there is a keeping of company would suit you.” She indicated a pair that approached the farm. The man was lame, with a bad hip, and his right hand was furnished with two fingers only—it was Samuel Ceely. His maimed hand was thrust between the buttons of his waistcoat, and on his right arm rested the coarse red hand of Joan Melhuish. “Do y’ look there!” exclaimed Thomasine, “are they not laughable? They have been courting these twenty years, and no nigher marriage now than when they began; it might be the same with us, were I fool enough to listen and wait for what you offer.” “It is no laughing matter,” said the lad, “it is sad.” “It is sad that she should be such a fool! Will his fingers grow again, and his hip right itself? She should have looked about for another lover twenty years ago, now it is too late, and I take warning from her. You, Arkie, are like Samuel Ceely, not in body but in wits, crippled and limping there.” “Tamsin!” exclaimed Arkie, “you shall not speak like that to me.” He stood up and stepped to where she was, and seated himself again beside her. That was on the highest step, and they were now both with their backs to the granary door. He tried to take her hand. “No, Arkie,” she said, “I speak seriously, I will not be your sweetheart. I like you well enough. You are a good tempered, nice fellow, very good natured, and always cheerful, but I won’t have you. I can’t live on fourteen shillings a week, and I won’t live in the country where there is nothing going on, but cows calving and turnips growing. There is no wickedness in either, and wickedness makes life various and enjoyable. I can read and write and cypher, and am tired of work accordingly. I want to enjoy myself. There is mistress!” she exclaimed, stood up, stepped aside, missed her footing, and fell to the bottom of the steps. “Oh, Tamsin, if only you had let me hold you!” cried Archelaus, and ran down to raise her. “Then you would not have fallen.” She had sprained her foot and could only limp. CHAPTER X. “SABINA GREEN.”