She stood there a moment watching the moving groups yonder, and then passed out through the gate on to the road. As she slammed it to behind her, a tall young woman came swinging up a path to the left, her black locks somewhat dishevelled and her bodice loose at the throat. “Where are ye off to so glum, Jenny?” said she. “Come and ’ave a bit of a lark. ’Ere’s your beau a-comin’ across the field.” The girl didn’t stop. “’E ain’t no beau o’ mine, nor I don’t want him to be,” said she, and walked on quickly up the road. “Oh, Lord no, o’ course not,” called out the other after her. “Ye don’t mind ’im lookin’ arter ye all the ’opping-time, though! But I’m sure _I_ don’t want to take ’im from ye if ’e means business. ’E ain’t no beauty!” The man lounging across the stubble-field stopped; he was still within ear-shot, as the girl knew. Jenny faced round on her. “Ye’ll, please, not to say that again, Mary Ann Mitcham,” said she stiffly. “I’ve told ye Mr. Martin ain’t no beau o’ mine, and that’s all about it.” And she strode on again beside the hedge. The other laughed as she swung herself over the gate and ran off across the field; and she laughed again when she met the man and he gave her no greeting, but passed her by with a sullen expression on his face. She was used to calling that expression on to folk’s faces, and rather enjoyed it than otherwise. She called it up again on the face of a slatternly woman who stood at the door of one of the straw huts further on with a fretful baby in her arms. “Have ye seen Jenny anywheres, Mary Ann, my dear?” asked the woman. “I want ’er to come and ’old this child a bit for me.” “So as you may step up to the ‘Public’ for your supper, eh, Mrs. Barnes,” laughed the girl as she ran. “Jenny’s always too good-natured, mindin’ yer squallin’ brats for ye. One’d think ye was ’er mother instead of only a neighbour. But she’s somethin’ better to do to-night: she’s a-courtin’.” “Ye’re a rude minx, and I don’t believe it,” answered the woman tartly. “Why, Jenny never ’as no word to say for a man. And she’d nurse a child all day and think it a treat. Ye can’t give _Jenny’s_ beau a name.” “Can’t I then?” sneered the girl. “It’s Mr. Martin, that’s who her beau is!” The woman uttered an exclamation and stepped outside. “Ye’re dreamin’,” she said. “He’s got somethin’ else to think of than foolin’.” “Ye can see ’em for yerself,” scoffed Mary Ann, pointing to the road where the heads of the man and the girl were to be seen slowly passing along above the privet hedge. “Well, _’e_ ain’t much of a beau, then,” sneered the woman, “It’s disgustin’. A widower wi’ a child to keep.” Mary Ann was hurrying on, but she turned back. “What!” she shrieked. “Who says so?” "_I_ says so," answered the woman. “Why, this is his brat as I’ve got ’ere, so I ought to know it. ’E and his slip of a wife lived in my court up in London, and when the mother died he guv me the child to mind. But Lord, what ’e pays ain’t worth the bother.”