‘To be sure: I must keep on good terms with my aunt, must n’t I? Else perhaps she won’t make me welcome when I come to see you.’ ‘No fear o’ that—she’ll make ’ee welcome enough. She al’ays behaved uncommon civil and respectful to I in ’Lias’s time. Ah, sure, that she did.’ ‘Perhaps she won’t be pleased at my calling so early?’ ‘Early! Dear heart alive! You don’t know that woman, Richard. She’s astir soon arter four in the morning, and she has her maids afoot afore that. Aye, and the men knows if they comes late they’ll get fined. Ah, she be a wonderful manager.’ ‘Then, what in the name of wonder,’ said Richard to himself, as he followed the portly white figure across the yard and over the downs—‘what in the name of wonder can she want with you?’ Despite Farmer Sharpe’s protest most people would have considered the hour at which they betook themselves to call at Littlecomb Farm a sufficiently early one. The dew lay thick and sparkling upon the short herbage of the downs, and the air was still sharp and keen. A lark was circling over their heads, its jubilant notes piercing Richard’s heart with an odd sense of pain. What was this heaviness which had come upon him, and which even the brisk walk through the exhilarating air, and the delightfully familiar scents, and sounds, and sights could not drive away? Now they had entered Rosalie’s demesne. These wide fields were hers; yonder were her cattle grazing by the river; and here, peeping through the trees and compassed about by a goodly array of stacks, was her house with its bodyguard of farm-buildings. Richard, who had not spoken much throughout the walk, became altogether silent as he crossed the well-kept yard, and even lagged behind when his uncle approached the open milkhouse door. Through this open door the sound of female voices could be heard, raised, one in voluble excuse, another, whose tone Richard recognised with a little shiver of inexplicable anguish, in vituperation. But Isaac Sharpe boldly advanced into the building, and beckoned to him to follow. ‘Why, what’s the matter here?’ he inquired good-humouredly. ‘Fine mornin’, Mrs. F. I’ve brought my nevvy to see ye.’ ‘He’ll find us rather in a mess, I’m afraid,’ returned Rosalie’s clear voice, still with a distinct note of sharpness in it; ‘but I am very glad he has come; I want to thank him for his kindness to me yesterday.’ Peering over his uncle Richard descried the mistress of the establishment stooping over the large cheese-vat already alluded to, one white arm, bare almost to the shoulder, vigorously kneading and stirring a huge mass of curds. Her buff print dress appeared to imprison the sunshine, and attitude and movement alike showed off her supple figure to the very best advantage.