“Yes,” said he in the same awkward way, “that ’ere’s my boy that I told ye of. Mrs. Barnes ’as ’ad the mindin’ of ’im—and I never knowed till now what sort o’ mindin’ it was—but that ’ere’s my boy.” “Who’d ha’ thought ’e was such a little ’un?” murmured Jenny dreamily—“just as big as mine were.” “Yes, ’e ain’t very old yet,” allowed the man, “only a year come Lord Mayor’s Day, and his mother died as ’e were born. She was but sickly, and ’e ain’t much. Not but what ’e might ha’ been better, but, Lord, a man don’t know ’ow a child have got to be minded, bless ye.” The old defiance that had flashed back into Jenny’s face a minute ago had faded away again, and she was pale in the wan light. “O’ course not,” she said commiseratingly, and yet with a quiet air of superiority. “Ah, _you_ know,” said he, with honest admiration. “But, there, I don’t suppose ye’d give a thought to such a thing as mindin’ of _’im_?” he murmured sheepishly. He had lifted his eyes to her, but he drew them away again—while he waited. “I’ve got my living to work for,” said she. “I shouldn’t ’ave time.” Then he took heart of grace—he came close to her. “But if there was some one to work for you,” said he. “If we was wed, so to speak?” She didn’t move, but her eyes grew startled, and then just a touch of hardness came back into her face. “Ye didn’t say that up yonder,” said she. “No,” he said, “I’ll allow I was startled a bit at first. But ... well, I know as you’re a good woman somehow ... and I love ye, Jenny—there! So if you can forget, well, so can I.” She stood, with her lips parted, gazing straight out across the field—but a film of tears gathered slowly across her eyes. Neither spoke, and the minutes sped by as in a dream, while the stars rained down their tenderness. But as she stood there with that sweet seriousness of thought on her simple face, the babe, missing its lullaby, sent forth a piteous wail from within. Then she sprang to its side, and snatching it to her breast and bending o’er it a face, tender as the moonlight that bathed her, she whispered softly: “I’ll think on it.” A RETROSPECT A RETROSPECT A man and a woman stood in a country lane as the sun was setting. It was where the lane broke out into the open ground of the common, and above them on the hill a windmill was swinging gaunt, lazy arms against the sky. On one side it looked down and across the marsh to the incoming tide, and on the other it commanded miles of pasture-land and hop-fields, and saw the Sussex Downs roll away beyond: behind it, on a sky of opaque blue, the moon had just risen red, and looked at the setting sun opposite. The man stood ruefully, gazing up at the mill, his back half turned to the woman, who was talking fast and loud.