“But I don’t care for the lecture. We are not going to finish the course. Annie says that her mother--Aunt Jerusha--thought scientific nursing a great mistake, and always said that no woman could expect to be a good nurse until she had been the mother of a large family and had buried two-thirds of it. You _must_ come to Malling.” She was speaking to Pamela, but her blue eyes were on Edred. “I’ll come, anyhow,” he said lightly. “I’ll call at Turle about three. Will that do? Pamela would rather go to Liddleshorn and bandage her small boy.” “That would be fun. And you’ll come into supper afterward. I must go now. Mother told me to look in at Hone’s--Nick Hone’s.” “Where there are so many children?” asked Pamela, her gloomy eyes on the straight line of beauty afforded by her choice roses. “No. Those are the Peter Hones. The Bert Hones live near us. But Nick Hone is a neighbor of yours. Jethro!” she called out shrilly, and he came across the rough, dry ground, hoe in hand, “do send poor Nick Hone in some new potatoes. You have plenty.” She glanced along the beds at the rows in white blossom. “He’s dying, and he keeps saying that if he had a dish of new potatoes he’d get better. Mrs. Hone went and dug some yesterday, but they were only as large as cob-nuts. Mother would have sent some, but Evergreen is a little touchy. He doesn’t like us to interfere with the vegetables.” “Daborn shall take a trug full,” said Jethro carelessly. “Dying, is he? That’s drink. Never knew such a fellow! Three gallons of cider a day at harvest time wasn’t enough for him. The other men save some and take it home to their wives.” “That is kind of you. Mrs. Hone will be so pleased. I’ll be off now. Three o’clock on Thursday, Mr. Crisp.” He seemed amused by her adorable air of sheepishness when he took her hand. They all four went out into the inclosed garden, Jethro and Pamela dropping behind as a matter of course--his eyes on her, and hers fixed blankly on the well-cut back of Edred’s coat. Jethro picked up a flat wooden basket, with pieces of wood at the bottom like the rockers of a cradle. It stood by a row of early peas. “Here’s a trug. Daborn shall take it to Hone when he goes home to dinner. Here, Daborn!”