“I never!” exclaimed Mary Ann impressively. “Do Jenny know it?” “No,” answered the woman, “and, look ’ere, don’t ye go saying nothink about it neither. It’s little enough, but sich as it is I can’t afford to lose it, and he swore he’d take the brat away if ever I said i’ the place as it were his’n.” Mary Ann laughed her resounding laugh. “Don’t want no chaff, I suppose?” roared she. “I’ll think about it. If Jenny ain’t goin’ to ’ave ’im, there’s no call to tell. But Jenny’s my pal, and I’ll not promise.” “If ye don’t I’ll scratch ye,” screamed the woman. But Miss Mitcham had eluded her and escaped to the group beside the water-budge, where there was more fun. Meanwhile the man, shuffling in the dust, had caught up Jenny on the road. He had a slow, weary sort of gait, and was evidently not of the soil any more than the rest. In their different ways they all had an air of city slums about them in spite of their tanned faces and hands torn by ragged bines and rough hop-poles. “What are ye goin’ to buy for supper to-night?” said he, after they had tramped along a little way without a word. “The bacon ain’t p’tickler good in this ’ere village, are it?” He had a slow speech, but not unmusical, and the expression of his face, though of the contemplative order, was frank and friendly, and suggested none of the discontent that his words might have implied. “No,” answered she. “But I ain’t goin’ to buy no supper to-night. I’ll get a drink o’ milk from the farm presently. I ain’t ’ungry.” “Ye can’t work if ye don’t eat,” said he, and then added shyly: “’Aven’t ye got no money?” She flushed a quick red, and he hastened to say apologetically: “Girls are apt to send it all ’ome, I know.” “I ain’t got no ’ome,” said she shortly, “nor yet any one as wants my money.” “What,” said he, “’aven’t you got no father nor mother?” “No,” she answered; “I ’aven’t, and I don’t know as you’ve any call to ask.” “Beg pardon,” said the man, and then he began to whistle, and looked away awkwardly. “I filled a can o’ water for ye at the budge,” said he presently. “It’s by yer door.” “Thank you,” said she. And then there was silence again. They walked on thus another couple of hundred yards down the road, and then turned aside beyond the hop-fields up a steep and shady lane that was dark in the dusky light. Half way up there was a break in the trees on one side through which one could see the evening sky beyond the Scotch firs. Here Martin suddenly stopped and came close up to her. “Miss,” said he, without any introduction, “I’ve noticed as ye’re short wi’ me to-night, and I’ve been thinkin’ as p’r’aps ye’ve cause.” She looked at him now; she had eyes like a startled fawn’s—now brown, now grey. “I _ain’t_ been,” she said. “Yes,” insisted he, “and ye’ve cause. I’ve been courtin’ ye all the ’oppin’, and we don’t get on—and folk talk and vex ye.” He paused a moment, but she only hung her head.