That’s all,’ repeated Rosalie, looking at the kind, troubled old face with a bewildered stare. That was all, of course; and she had known it before. She had with her own eyes watched Richard’s departing figure until it had disappeared from sight. She had known quite well that he would never return; she had even told him to go, agreed with him that it was the right and honourable thing to do—the only thing to do. Ever since the morning she had been telling herself so over and over again; yet none the less the farmer’s words fell like a knell upon her heart. ‘You do look bad, to be sure—I am sorry your head be so bad. Lard! Lard, what a world this be! I’m that upset I don’t know whether I’m on my head or my heels.’ The quaver in his voice smote Rosalie. She must make an effort to overcome her selfish grief; above all, to conquer that mad spirit of rebellion which every now and then rose rampant within her. This good man had need of her sympathy; should she not give it all the more willingly that there was so large an element of remorse mingled with her misery? She sat up and looked affectionately towards him: ‘I’m very, very sorry for you,’ she said. ‘’T was so sudden, ye see,’ pursued Isaac dolefully. ‘He never so much as said a word to I—never so much as hinted as he war n’t satisfied. I mid ha’ seen that the restless fit were a-comin’ on if I had n’t ha’ been sich a sammy. Restless! He were that restless last night, he were more like a dog at a fair as had lost his master nor a reasonable human being! It was up and down, and in and out the whole blessed evening. Ah, I be terrible upset; I be oncommon fond o’ Richard, d’ ye see. Always was from the time he were a little ’un. I was oncommon fond o’ his mother afore him; she were the only woman I ever could put up wi’—present company excepted.’ As Isaac ducked his head towards her with a melancholy attempt at jocularity, Rosalie’s heart sank lower still; she turned away hastily that he might not see her face. At an earlier period she might have been gratified by the knowledge that she was one of the few women in the world whom Isaac Sharpe could ‘put up with’—phrases of the kind were his nearest approach to ardour, and indicated, as she knew, a considerable amount of solid attachment; but the passionate tones of Richard’s voice had rung too recently in her ear—the look in his eyes was too fresh in her memory. Ah, what had she not seen in those eyes! ‘’Ees,’ went on her unconscious future husband, ‘’ees, I’ll be like to miss ’en; him and me was the best of friends—and that’s not all. His leaving me like this be terrible ill-convenient just now—’t is the busy time of year, d’ye see—haymaking time—every pair o’ hands is wanted. Richard did very near the work o’ two men; and he must go trapesing off wi’ hisself, giving me no time at all to find somebody to take his place.’ There was a distinct sense of injury in his tone now.