The young lady entered briskly, all the bottles in her bag clicking. “Evenin’, Mrs. Ashcroft,” she began. “I’ve come raound a little earlier than usual because of the Institute dance to-na-ite. You won’t ma-ind, will you?” “Oh, no. Me dancin’ days are over.” Mrs. Ashcroft was the self-contained domestic at once. “My old friend, Mrs. Fettley ’ere, has been settin’ talkin’ with me a while.” “I hope she ’asn’t been fatiguing you?” said the Nurse a little frostily. “Quite the contrary. It ’as been a pleasure. Only--only--just at the end I felt a bit--a bit flogged out, like.” “Yes, yes.” The Nurse was on her knees already, with the washes to hand. “When old ladies get together they talk a deal too much, I’ve noticed.” “Mebbe we do,” said Mrs. Fettley, rising. “So, now, I’ll make myself scarce.” “Look at it first, though,” said Mrs. Ashcroft feebly. “I’d like ye to look at it.” Mrs. Fettley looked, and shivered. Then she leaned over, and kissed Mrs. Ashcroft once on the waxy yellow forehead, and again on the faded grey eyes. “It _do_ count, don’t it--de pain?” The lips that still kept trace of their original moulding hardly more than breathed the words. Mrs. Fettley kissed them and moved towards the door. [2] Hop-picking. RAHERE Rahere, King Henry’s Jester, feared by all the Norman Lords For his eye that pierced their bosoms, for his tongue that shamed their swords; Feed and flattered by the Churchmen--well they knew how deep he stood In dark Henry’s crooked counsels--fell upon an evil mood. Suddenly, his days before him and behind him seemed to stand Stripped and barren, fixed and fruitless, as those leagues of naked sand When St. Michael’s ebb slinks outward to the bleak horizon-bound, And the trampling wide-mouthed waters are withdrawn from sight and sound. Then a Horror of Great Darkness sunk his spirit and, anon, (Who had seen him wince and whiten as he turned to walk alone) Followed Gilbert the Physician, and muttered in his ear, “Thou hast it, O my brother?” “Yea, I have it,” said Rahere. “So it comes,” said Gilbert smoothly, “man’s most immanent distress. ’Tis a humour of the Spirit which abhorreth all excess; And, whatever breed the surfeit--Wealth, or Wit, or Power, or Fame (And thou hast each) the Spirit laboureth to expel the same. “Hence the dulled eye’s deep self-loathing--hence the loaded leaden brow; Hence the burden of Wanhope that aches thy soul and body now. Ay, the merriest fool must face it, and the wisest Doctor learn; For it comes--it comes,” said Gilbert, “as it passes--to return.”