Pushing back her chair, she returned to the window impatiently. The carpenter had remained in the same attitude, without even unfastening his bag of tools; Abel had set down his pails, and propped himself up against the other gate-post; the pigs were wildly protesting in the background. Rosalie recrossed the room hastily and went to the door. ‘Do you intend to gossip here all day?’ she inquired with flashing eyes. ‘We was jest a-talkin’ about the melancolly event,’ explained the carpenter. ‘You will oblige me,’ said Rosalie, ‘by keeping to your work. Abel, take those pails across to the sties at once. Remember, I will have no more dawdling.’ Abel took up his pails, and the carpenter unfastened his tools, the expression of both faces alike shocked, wounded, and astonished. ‘If this goes on,’ murmured Rosalie to herself, ‘I shall not only break my heart, but go out of my mind. Oh, Elias, you were clever as well as kind—everything seemed to go by clock-work when you were here—oh, why did you leave me?’ CHAPTER IV An’ o’ worken’ days, oh! he do wear Such a funny roun’ hat,—you mid know’t— Wi’ a brim all a-strout roun’ his hair, An’ his glissenèn eyes down below’t; An’ a coat wi’ broad skirts that do vlee In the wind ov his walk, round his knee. WILLIAM BARNES. ALL the forenoon was passed in butter-making, and in the afternoon Rosalie betook herself to the mead to superintend the operations of James and Robert. It was not until after tea that she had leisure to change her dress and make her way, by the well-known little footpath that skirted the cornfields and wound across the downs, to Isaac Sharpe’s farm. She found that worthy standing contemplatively in the middle of his yard. There had been sheep-shearing that day, and the master had worked as hard as any of the men; now, however, the naked, ungainly-looking ewes had returned to their pasture, the newly-taken fleeces lay neatly piled up in a corner of the barn, and Isaac was at liberty to straighten his weary back, relax his muscles, and smoke the pipe of peace. Tall, massive, and imposing was this figure of his, ever at its best in the smock-frock and serviceable corduroys and leggings of weekday wear; his wideawake, turned up at the back and projecting in front in the orthodox shovel form, was decidedly more becoming than the Sunday beaver. He started as the yard-gate creaked upon its hinges, and Rosalie’s black-robed figure passed through. ‘Why, Mrs. Fiander,’ he cried, hastening towards her, ‘be this you? I’m glad to see ye. Is there anything I can do for ’ee?’