“He’s been one of those who lash and kick, too--the brute. And she such a sweet old fragrant thing! Never mind, Mrs. Hone; don’t you trouble to move, Mr. Hone; we should be sorry to disturb your tea.” Mrs. Clutton squeezed round the other side of the table and took the tray in her hands. It was oval, cut out of the solid wood, and daintily inlaid with box. “You’d sell this, Mrs. Hone?” “The lady wants to know if we’ll sell the tray.” “What’s she goin’ to give we for it?” he demanded sharply. “Ten shillings!” screamed Mrs. Clutton. “No, no! We couldn’t let it go for that. I thought fifteen.” “Too much.” She put the tray back on the ledge. He stuffed the last hunk of bread into his fierce old mouth, and spluttered out: “Will you give twelve-and-six?” “Well--yes. Is that settled?” “You must settle with missus. I’m only a lodger.” His eyes glittered at the half-sovereign she took from her purse and laid in Mrs. Hone’s hand. “Yes, he’s only a lodger, as I often tells him when he’s tiresome. It’s my house. I was borned here--my brother left it me; he says, ‘You was borned here and you shall die here.’ My father built it and my brother added on this front room. His wife wanted to pull the old place down and put up a new; but he says, ‘No; what the father’s hands had put up the son’s should never pull down.’” She kept laughing feebly and looking at them, from one to the other, with her dim eyes, deep in the web of seventy-eight years. “It’s my cottage, and that’s why they won’t give me parish relief. It’s very hard. I ses to ’em, ‘I can’t fill my poor empty belly with bricks and mortar. An’ I am so fond of a bit of meat.’” She was like a small child begging for sweets. “Haven’t you any daughter to come in and look after you?” “No. My daughter died fifty-five year ago. She was a pretty little gal. He’s my second husband, you know.” She nodded her head toward the deaf man, who, mollified by the gold, was munching vegetables like an amiable donkey. “My first husband died. He was coachman at Warne. When the new one come I was told to turn out of my nice cottage. So I married him. I couldn’t leave my nice cottage, could I, my dears? I was a silly gal and got married agen. I married the new coachman. That was before my brother died and left me this. If I’d known he was going to die and leave me this cottage when I was borned, I wouldn’t ha’ been a silly gal and got married agen. He was a dwarf, my brother. You come agen some day, and I’ll show you his trousers. I’ll show you my husband’s trousers, too. I got four shillin’s prize at the show last year for the best patch put on her husband’s trousers by an old woman over sixty. And I’m seventy-eight--there’s a difference! There did ought to be another class for them over seventy. I can use my needle. Mother always taught us to use our needles. The gals nowadays can’t put a shirt together.” “Tea will be ready at Turle,” whispered Pamela.