‘I wish you would n’t talk such nonsense, Mrs. Greene,’ cried Rosalie almost pettishly, though the colour rushed over her face, and a startled expression showed itself for a moment in her heavy eyes. ‘Go away! I don’t want to be worried any more; remember what I have said, that’s all.’ CHAPTER III Nothing coming, nothing going— Landrail craking, one cock crowing; Few things moving up and down, All things drowsy. NORTH-COUNTRY SONG. ROSALIE passed a very unquiet night, and woke from a troubled sleep shortly after dawn. The dead-weight of grief, ever present to her since her bereavement, was now, as she dimly felt, supplemented by something else—something irritating, something unpleasant. As her scattered faculties returned to her she gradually recognised that this state of feeling was produced by several small causes. The two visits which she had received yesterday, and which she had supposed to proceed from mere officious goodwill, had, as she now acknowledged, been prompted in all probability by aspirations as unjustifiable as they were unseemly. Her subsequent interview with Mrs. Greene had disagreeably enlightened her on this point, and had also made her aware of the kind of gossip to which she must expect to be subjected. Then—all through that long, lonely, heavy day Isaac Sharpe had not once put in an appearance. He, her husband’s faithful friend, the only real friend whom she herself acknowledged, had not thought fit to look in for so much as five minutes to cheer her in her desolation. As she thought of these things hot tears welled afresh to her eyes. Oh, how desolate she was! No one really cared for her, and, what was almost worse, no one seemed to believe in the sincerity of her affliction. As she lay tossing uneasily on her pillow, and as the light grew and brightened, and the birds’ jubilant songs mingled with the distant lowing of cows, a new sense of disquietude came to her, proceeding from a different and very tangible cause. It was broad day—Monday morning—a morning of exceptional importance at the farm—and no human being seemed yet to be afoot. Reaching up her hand to the old-fashioned watch-pocket which hung in the centre of the bed, she took down Elias’s heavy silver repeater and pressed the spring. _Ting_, _ting_, _ting_, _ting_, _ting_! Five o’clock. Sitting up, she sent the two cases flying open and gazed almost incredulously at the dial beneath. Ten minutes past five—no less! She sprang out of bed and flung open her door. ‘Jane! Susan! What are you about? ’t is past five o’clock, and churning morning. How did you come to oversleep yourselves like that?’ There was a muffled murmur, a thud upon the floor, a _pat_, _pat_ of bare feet across the room above, and a door overhead opened. ‘Was ye callin’, mum?’ ‘Was I calling? I should think I was calling! Have you forgotten what morning it is?’