She could hear the men’s voices murmuring together discontentedly, but by-and-by the sound of heavy slouching steps moving away in different directions warned her that the group had dispersed. It being the morning for cheese-making, she presently went upstairs to change her imposing black robe for her working dress, and, chancing as she came downstairs to look out of the window, she observed that Job Hunt was standing, arms a-kimbo, by the pigsties, in close conversation with his brother. Now, Job should at that moment have been far on his way to the pasture; Abel ought to have been feeding the pigs: this was palpable defiance. ‘Deeds, not words,’ said Rosalie to herself. ‘They think I am merely threatening—I must show them I am in earnest.’ She went across the yard, note-book in hand. ‘It is now half-past five,’ she remarked. ‘You, Job, are two hours and a half late; you, Abel, an hour. I have made a note of the time. Moreover, if I find that you continue to disobey me I shall not keep you in my service.’ Job made an indescribable sound, between a snort and a groan, and slowly walked away. Abel, however, continued to stare darkly at his mistress, without changing his position. As Rosalie, now thoroughly incensed, was about to pour out upon him the vials of her wrath, she suddenly perceived—the fact being unmistakably impressed upon her—that the pigsties near which she stood were in a most disgraceful condition. ‘Abel,’ she said, ‘when were these sties cleaned out? Not, I am sure, on Saturday.’ ‘I were—mortal busy o’ Saturday,’ returned Abel in sepulchral tones. ‘Why were you more busy last Saturday than on any other Saturday?’ Abel shuffled from one foot to the other, and repeated sulkily that he had been mortal busy. ‘You must clean them as soon as ever you have fed the pigs,’ said Rosalie sharply. ‘’t is enough to bring fever to the place to have them in this state.’ ‘Pigs is n’t p’ison,’ responded Abel roughly. ‘Do not attempt to answer me back like that,’ she cried. ‘It must be very bad for the poor animals themselves. Get to work without a moment’s delay.’ ‘Saturday is the day,’ growled the man. ‘I’m—blowed if I clean ’em out afore Saturday!’ ‘Mind what you are about,’ said his mistress sternly, uplifting a warning fore-finger. ‘I will not put up with impertinence or disobedience.’ ‘Saturday is the day,’ shouted Abel; and the shuffling movement became so violent and rapid that he actually seemed to dance. ‘This will never do,’ said Rosalie. ‘I see I must make a change at once. Abel Hunt, I give you notice to leave on Saturday week.’ ‘One change be enough for me, Widow Fiander,’ retorted Abel, uplifting his voice as though his mistress stood a hundred yards away from him instead of barely two. Rosalie’s lips quivered. ‘’T is your own fault,’ she cried passionately. ‘If you behave in this way I must make an example of you. Unless you do as I tell you, you must go!’