She sat brooding by the door, thinking proudly of all her domestic achievements and telling herself piteously that Jethro would never allow her to be displaced. Of course, she had known that he would marry some day, but then, in her own mind, she had picked him out a wife: pretty, soft-looking Nancy from Turle House. A wife--pliable and a little foolish, like Nancy--would not have mattered. But a cousin on the mother’s side! An unknown girl from London! A girl whose capital “P” trailed to the edge of the envelope! She got up again and went round the dull room in her halting way, dusting and tidying mechanically. Then all at once she straightened her back and listened. There were light steps on the brick path which led round to the garden door. The clip-clip of the shears ceased. There were two voices--a young feminine one and the hoarse croak of old Chalcraft, who was past work, and lived out his life of long service like an ancient horse, doing light jobs, so that he might still believe himself useful and independent. Gainah went out, the sun on her uncovered head, with its wide parting and gray-brown hair. She went round the corner. Chalcraft was on the ladder still. The shears yawned in his tremulous hand; he had clipped to the wall, and the Sweet-waters hung close to it and stripped of foliage, pale green and luscious. The long trails of grayish leaves were on the path; the girl trod them down. When she saw the elder woman she made a step forward. She seemed half defiant, half ashamed. Her hat was on one side; it gave her a rakish air of towns. Such a slight thing may imperil a woman’s reputation--in prejudiced eyes. Gainah’s cold eyes contracted, and her brows drew over them a harsh ridge. Pamela put out her hand--in a new glove. A slim gold bracelet, from which dangled a green charm, swung on her wrist. “You must be Gainah,” she said in a conciliating way, and smiling. Then she added, with a faint touch of injury, “I wrote to say I was coming this morning. I hoped that you would send to meet me. It’s a long walk.” Gainah gave her a sharp look; she thought that this was the first indication of authority. “It’s harvest-time,” she said curtly; “the best harvest for seventeen years. Come inside.” They both slipped over the threshold of that dim gray room with the stone floor and the solid family furniture. Pamela gave a swift glance round to see if the room was empty. There was a flaming spot on each cheek, and her glittering eyes moved uneasily behind her loose veil. “I’d like to put myself tidy,” she said in the confiding whisper of one woman to another, “before I go in to him.” “To your Cousin Jethro?” Gainah’s dull eyes fastened on the hectic face. “To my Cousin Jethro--yes,” she laughed nervously; then added quickly, “It seems strange to call him ‘cousin.’ We’ve--we’ve never met. You got my letter? Yes. I--I want to be friends.”