Sage and she had grown more intimate, as if there were feelings in common between them, the quiet toleration of Cyril's wife ripening fast into affection, so that, as Cynthia's time was so much taken up by Lord Artingale, Julia and Sage were a good deal together, the latter being her sister-in-law's companion in her visiting rounds, when, to the Rev Lawrence Paulby's satisfaction, she tried to counteract some of the prevalent ill-feeling against the Mallow family by calls here and there amongst the parishioners. One place where they often called was at the ford of the river, to have a chat with little Mrs Morrison, where somehow there seemed to be quite a magnetic attraction; Cyril's wife sitting down in the neatly-kept little place to gaze almost in silence at the wheelwright's pretty young wife, while, as if drawn there against her will, Julia would stop and talk. The river was very pretty just there even in winter, brawling and babbling over the gravel before settling down calm and still as it flowed slowly amongst the deep holes beneath the willow pollards, where the big fish were known to lie. And more than once sister and sister-in-law came upon Cyril in one or other of the fields, trying after the big jack that no one yet had caught. "I know he's about here somewhere," said Cyril, over and over again. "He lies in wait for the dace that come off the shallows, and I mean to have him before I've done." That was an artful jack though, for it must have understood Cyril Mallow and his wiles, obstinately refusing to be caught. Julia used to look very serious when she saw him there again and again, but she felt afraid to speak, for the confidence that had existed between her and her old maid seemed to have passed away, and when their eyes met at times there was a curious shrinking look on either side; and so the time went on. One day Tom Morrison was busily at work at a piece of well-seasoned ash with his spoke-shave. The day was bright and keen and cold, but he was stripped to shirt and trousers, the neck unfastened, sleeves rolled up, and a look of calm satisfaction in his face as his muscles tightened and he drew off the thin spiral shavings from the piece of wood. In old days the workshop used to resound with snatches of song, or his rather melodious whistling; but of late, since the loss of his little one, he had grown cold and grave, working in a quiet, subdued manner; and those who knew him said that he was nursing up his revenge against the parson. Fullerton gave him several jobs that should by rights have gone to Biggins the carpenter, and he once went so far as to say-- "They tell me you never go to church now, Tom Morrison." "Would you like it painted stone-colour or white, Mr Fullerton?" said Tom Morrison, quietly. "Oh--er--white," replied Fullerton, and he said no more upon that occasion.