"He's dust," she replied, "and he's going back to the dust he came from, like a little cloud raised by the wind. What has he ever had in life to make him want to live?" Lucy sank back upon her pillows, and clasped her hands behind her head. It was not often that Barbara spoke bitterly. "And you!" she said. "You've never a chance, either. You might be a man for the work you do." "I was meant for a man when I was made so tall and strong," answered the girl, with a note of pride in her voice and a straightening of her figure. "Nay, nay, there's not a man in the dale, nor in the country round, that can hold a candle to thee." "Then I's neither fish, flesh nor fowl, for there's not a woman as tall or strong, unless it be yon great creature we saw at the show." Lucy gazed at her sister with critical eyes. "You'll look finely, like a queen, when you get the crown Old Camomile promised thee, the day he told your stars," she said. Barbara moved towards the door, carrying her clogs in her hand. "Don't forget it's time you were up," she replied. Not even to her sister would she acknowledge that the prophecy gave an interest to her life. But Lucy would not be repressed. "Perhaps a lord will ride by some day, and marry you, Barbara. Who knows?" The girl paused with her fingers on the latch. "His horse would stick in the mud of the bridle path like a fly in a glue-pot. He'd never get so far as Greystones. You're a silly wench, Lucy. Lords don't come looking for wives among peasant lasses." Lucy gurgled with laughter, which she stifled under the quilt for fear of waking her great-grandmother. "What a sober old maid you are, Barbara," she said. "Do you never dream?" The door shut with a soft snick--her sister had gone. For a while longer Lucy lay still, gazing at the rushlight as it burnt dimmer and the daylight increased. She wondered what life held in store for Barbara and herself. The present was not without its excitements, but towards the future she turned longing eyes--the Future, hidden by a golden cloud, which some day would fade away, disclosing undreamed-of joys. Then she got slowly out of bed. Her toilet was not a simple affair like her sister's. Along a shelf stood a row of little green jars and bottles, containing balms and salves and scented waters. The sun might tan Barbara's face and bleach her hair to the colour of ripe corn; rain and wind and frost might redden and cut her hands, but Lucy's cheeks were always satin smooth, and her curls black and glistening. She tempted her sister with ointment made from cowslips, with distilled rose-water, and balm of elder-flowers--all the sweetest odours that ever perfumed woodland air were concentrated into those green phials--but she tempted in vain. Barbara laughed. There were the cows to milk, the sheep to herd, hoeing and weeding and seed-sowing to do; what time had she for such fanglements?