The housekeeper, a distant relative of Ki Drownlands, was hearty in her offers of assistance, and the maid-of-all-work, who was afflicted with St. Vitus' dance, nodded her kindly good wishes. Both Drownlands and the housekeeper had urged Zita to accept the accommodation of the house, in which were many rooms and beds, but she had declined the invitation; she was accustomed to van life, and could make herself comfortable in her wonted quarters. She needed little, and the van was supplied with most things that she required. There were in it even sufficient black odds and ends to serve her for mourning at her father's funeral. What was there not in the van? It was an epitome of the world, it was a universal mart, a Novgorod Fair sublimated to an essence. 'What are you about?' asked Drownlands. He had come into the yard behind the farmhouse, and he saw Zita engaged in harnessing the horse. The front was down, and on it stood a milk-strainer, some blacking-brushes, and a flail. 'What are you about? Whither are you going?' Drownlands was a tall man, with a face like a hawk, and dark bushy brows that stood out over his eyes and the root of his nose. 'I am going,' answered Zita. 'Going? Who told you to go?' 'I am going to be an inconvenience no longer.' 'Who told you you were an inconvenience?' 'No one, but I know that I am not wanted. I thank you for what you have done, and will pay you.' 'Pay me? Who said a word about payment?' 'No one, but of course I pay. Mark Runham—I think that was his name—was kind to me,—that is to say, he spoke civil to me,—and I'm going to pay him for good words with a milk-strainer. You have done me good deeds, and I will pay you. Get into the van and pick out what you like up to five pounds. Do you want door-mats? There's a roll o' carpet, but I don't recommend it, and there's tinned goods.' Drownlands stared at the girl. Then his eyes rested on the flail. 'What have you got that for? It was in my house.' 'Yes. You took it in. But it is not yours. It belongs to Mark Runham. His father bought it of us. He gave a guinea for it. I picked it up on the bank when I overtook you. You had your flail in your hand. You would have ridden on and left me and my father in the lurch, but I stood in the way with that flail. It is not mine. I have the guinea I received for it in my purse. Now that the old man is dead, for certain it belongs to his son. That is why I am taking it to him.' 'He shall not have it! He must not have it!' exclaimed Drownlands. 'How came you to know Mark Runham?' 'The young man walked from his father's funeral. So did I. He walked the fastest, and he caught me up. He spoke kindly, and so I shall pay him for it with a milk-strainer, or, if he prefers it, with blacking-brushes.' 'Give him the blacking-brushes, by all means.' 'Or the milk-strainer?' 'Or the milk-strainer; but not the flail.' 'It is his,' said Zita. 'The old man paid down his money for it.'