‘I’m danged if I do clean the pigs out afore Saturday,’ shrieked Abel; and he threw his hat upon the ground, waved his arms, and stamped about like a maniac. ‘I don’t want no danged women-folk to come a-orderin’ o’ me;’ and here Abel relieved his feelings by what Isaac Sharpe would delicately call ‘a bit o’ language.’ ‘Clean your pigs yourself, Widow Fiander. One change be enough for me! Notice me so much as ever ye like, I’ll not clean them pigs out afore Saturday!’ Then came a little more ‘language,’ and so on _da capo_. Never had such an experience fallen to Rosalie’s lot before; neither her kind old grandfather nor her doting husband had ever given her a rough word; while they lived her subordinates had invariably obeyed her orders with alacrity, and treated her personally with respect. The sound of Abel’s strident tones, the sight of his inflamed face, above all the words he used and the insolence of his manner, positively frightened her. She turned pale, trembled—then, making a valiant effort to stand her ground, threw out her hand as though to command silence; but, as Abel continued to dance and rave, sheer physical terror overcame her, and she suddenly turned and fled, her heart thumping violently against her ribs, the tears—never very far off during these first days of her bereavement—springing to her eyes. She rushed upstairs to her room and flung herself across the bed, burying her face in the pillow in an agony of humiliation. ‘What a fool I am! What a miserable fool! To be afraid of that wretched booby! How can I ever hope to rule these people if I show the white feather at the outset? Now, of course, they will think that they’ve only got to bully me and I shall at once give in. Oh, fool, fool! To give way to silly womanish fears at such a moment! Oh, oh! how shall I ever look them in the face?’ She continued to roll her head on the pillow for some moments; her cheeks had now become burning, and her heart still beat fast, no longer with terror, but with anger. By-and-by she sat up, pushed back her hair, and shook out the folds of her dress. ‘After all, ’t is never too late to mend,’ she said to herself. She went downstairs, and into the dairy, directing her maids somewhat sharply, and setting about her own work with flushed cheeks and a serious face. In course of time her agitation subsided, and after her solitary breakfast she was quite herself again. At noon, as she passed through the kitchen to the parlour, she chanced to glance through the open door, and observed that the men had gathered together in the yard, and were eagerly talking instead of making their way homewards, or retiring to the barn to eat their dinners. She feigned to pay no attention to them, however, and walked on to her own quarters. Presently she became aware that the whole body was advancing towards the house, and a moment later Susan thrust in her round face at the door.