After a little she got up stiffly, the rheumatism gripping her cold limbs, and touched these things one by one lingeringly. She ran her fingers along edges, pressed them against teeth: the speculative, questioning look crossed her face again. Yes. She must do it. That was necessary for the peaceful carrying on of the farm life. She had never scrupled to destroy anything that came in the way of the farm. It must be done. But how? She took the hedgebill down. It had a long rounded handle of wood; its iron head was reared, as if to strike; there was the malignity of a cobra in the curve. There was the scythe with which through so many early summers she had seen them cut down the young grass; the sickle, the almost circular faghook, the solid billhook of shining steel with which the men chopped thick sticks that were bound in the very hearts of the fagots. There was an old tragic tale bound round the sickle. Years ago Chalcraft had made a clean cut with it through his child’s leg--a three-year-old asleep in the quivering oats. They said that Chalcraft, when the child died, tried to hang himself in the granary; but it was before she came to Folly Corner. There were the shears--long-handled shears, short-handled. She stood thoughtfully moving the handles. What sharp wide jaws! One could almost catch a head, a human head, in them, and clip it off as easily as one would the head of a dandelion. She dropped the tools as wearily as she had dropped the knives, with as great an air of bewilderment. She went back to the house, in at the open door. She stood for a moment looking out, seeing faintly some of the changes that had taken place and imagining the rest. Nothing was the same. The old prosperous, easy, untidy time had gone forever. The Jaynes were trying to be gentry. She felt convinced that there was ruin involved in the effort--ruin to the place, ruin to the family. She loved the place: the hard iron roofs, the white-seamed bricks affronted her. It wasn’t the Folly Corner she loved, outside nor in. She loved the family; loved Jethro: hadn’t she almost married his father and been a Jayne herself? And he! He was going to marry the girl who had lightly altered everything. He was going to marry her--the girl who had come back with the easy, insolent air of a devil that night when the shadows were falling. It must not be. She must save the farm, save the family. Yes. That was certain, that was settled. She had always made up her mind that, if Pamela ever dared return, then Pamela must be done away with. One had to get rid of certain nuisances, certain unprofitable things about a farm. It was settled. But how?