“Dunno.... But it come over me, sudden-like--about dat woman from Rye--I’ve slipped the name--Barnsley, wadn’t it?” “Batten--Polly Batten, you’re thinkin’ of.” “That’s it--Polly Batten. That day she had it in for you with a hay-fork--’time we was all hayin’ at Smalldene--for stealin’ her man.” “But you heered me tell her she had my leave to keep him?” Mrs. Ashcroft’s voice and smile were smoother than ever. “I did--an’ we was all looking that she’d prod the fork spang through your breastes when you said it.” “No-oo. She’d never go beyond bounds--Polly. She shruck too much for reel doin’s.” “Allus seems to _me_,” Mrs. Fettley said after a pause, “that a man ’twixt two fightin’ women is the foolishest thing on earth. ’Like a dog bein’ called two ways.” “Mebbe. But what set ye off on those times, Liz?” “That boy’s fashion o’ carryin’ his head an’ arms. I haven’t rightly looked at him since he’s growed. Your Jane never showed it, but--_him_! Why, ’tis Jim Batten and his tricks come to life again!... Eh?” “Mebbe. There’s some that would ha’ made it out so--bein’ barren-like, themselves.” “Oho! Ah well! Dearie, dearie me, now!... An’ Jim Batten’s been dead this----” “Seven and twenty years,” Mrs. Ashcroft answered briefly. “Won’t ye draw up, Liz?” Mrs. Fettley drew up to buttered toast, currant bread, stewed tea, bitter as leather, some home-preserved pears, and a cold boiled pig’s tail to help down the muffins. She paid all the proper compliments. “Yes. I dunno as I’ve ever owed me belly much,” said Mrs. Ashcroft thoughtfully. “We only go through this world once.” “But don’t it lay heavy on ye, sometimes?” her guest suggested. “Nurse says I’m a sight liker to die o’ me indigestion than me leg.” For Mrs. Ashcroft had a long-standing ulcer on her shin, which needed regular care from the Village Nurse, who boasted (or others did, for her) that she had dressed it one hundred and three times already during her term of office. “An’ you that _was_ so able, too! It’s all come on ye before your full time, like. _I_’ve watched ye goin’.” Mrs. Fettley spoke with real affection. “Somethin’s bound to find ye sometime. I’ve me ’eart left me still,” Mrs. Ashcroft returned. “You was always big-hearted enough for three. That’s somethin’ to look back on at the day’s eend.” “I reckon you’ve _your_ back-lookin’s, too,” was Mrs. Ashcroft’s answer. “You know it. But I don’t think much regardin’ such matters excep’ when I’m along with you, Gra’. ’Takes two sticks to make a fire.” Mrs. Fettley stared, with jaw half-dropped, at the grocer’s bright calendar on the wall. The cottage shook again to the roar of the motor-traffic, and the crowded football-ground below the garden roared almost as loudly; for the village was well set to its Saturday leisure. * * * * *