“Well,” said the girl, “’e looks old to be ’er dad. I thought ’e might be ’er gran-dad.” “Oh, I see,” said the woman. “No, he ain’t ’er gran-dad.” “Married a bit on in life p’r’aps,” said the other, tying the strings of her sun-bonnet and speaking without any particular interest. “That’s it,” assented the woman, “and more fool ’e. ’E _would_ ’ave a young wife, and a pretty ’un too—and ’e turned forty.” “Well, small blame to ’im there,” laughed the girl. “And so long as she were pleased....” “She!” sneered the woman. “Why ’e was rich, and he married nothin’ but a shrimper’s darter down at the Harbour! ’Er face was ’er fortune if ever one was, for she ’adn’t a brass farthing beside.” They had gathered their rakes and forks together, and were making their way across a little dyke into the road that wound across the marsh-land to the village on the hill. “Then the little ’un be like her mother,” said the younger woman. “She don’t favour ’er father any way.” “She be more like ’er mother than she be like Tom Wycombe, sartin sure,” laughed the woman. “But that ain’t saying much. ’Er mother were darker in the skin nor she be.” “But they say she were rare ’andsome,” said the girl. “And now she’s dead and buried, and ’im alone!” “Yes, died in childbed, and ’im alone this four years and more to mind that child. That’s what comes o’ marryin’,” said the woman, who was a spinster. “Pore soul!” murmured the girl feelingly, thinking of her own pretty face and the pretty face that was underground. And added with keener interest: “But ’e doated on er, o’ course.” “Doated on ’er? I b’lieve ye,” sniggered the elder. “’E was a fool over ’er, and she knew it.” “That’s why ’e be so soft on the little ’un, you bet,” declared the girl wisely. “That’s as may be,” said the woman. “’E’s mothered and fathered ’er ever since she was born, at any rate. And _that_ set on his own way with ’er too, ye wouldn’t believe! Won’t never take no advice from nobody. And she’ll get the top ’and of ’im—same as ’er mother did! See if she don’t! ’E be a downright ninny over ’er.” The man strode past as she spoke, and Mrs. Goodenough gave a start. “Eavesdroppers don’t never ’ear no good o’ themselves,” remarked she sententiously. But Tom Wycombe had heeded neither the first nor the last remark. His work was done and he was hastening to his child; he neither cared for nor noticed any one else.