Hubert rose from the table with an oath, stood for an instant looking down at Laura,--glowering, and pulling fiercely at his moustache,--then, noisily opening the front door, he strode across the yard to the byres. There was an instant's silence. Then Mrs. Mason rose with her hands clasped before her, her eyes half closed. "For what we ha' received, the Lord mak' us truly thankful," she said in a loud, nasal voice. "Amen." * * * * * After dinner, Laura put on an apron of Polly's, and helped her cousin to clear away. Mrs. Mason had gruffly bade her sit still, but when the girl persisted, she herself--flushed with dinner and combat--took her seat on the settle, opposite to old Daffady, and deliberately made holiday, watching Stephen's daughter all the time from the black eyes that roved and shone so strangely under the shaggy brows and the white hair. The old cowman sat hunched over the fire, smoking his pipe for a time in beatific silence. But presently Laura, as she went to and fro, caught snatches of conversation. "Did tha go ta Laysgill last Sunday?" said Mrs. Mason abruptly. Daffady removed his pipe. "Aye, a went, an a preeched. It wor a varra stirrin meetin. Sum o' yor paid preests sud ha' bin theer. A gien it 'em strang. A tried ta hit 'em all--baith gert an lile." There was a pause, then he added placidly: "A likely suden't suit them varra weel. Theer was a mon beside me, as pooed me down afoor a'd hofe doon." "Tha sudna taak o' 'paid preests,' Daffady," said Mrs. Mason severely. "Tha doosna understand nowt o' thattens." Daffady glanced slyly at his mistress--at the "Church-pride" implied in the attitude of her capacious form, in the shining of the Sunday alpaca and black silk apron. "Mebbe not," he said mildly, "mebbe not." And he resumed his pipe. On another occasion, as Laura went flitting across the kitchen, drawing to herself the looks of both its inmates, she heard what seemed to be a fragment of talk about a funeral. "Aye, poor Jenny!" said Mrs. Mason. "They didna mak' mich account on her whan t' breath wor yanst oot on her." "Nay,"--Daffady shook his head for sympathy,--"it wor a varra poor set-oot, wor Jenny's buryin. Nowt but tay, an sic-like." Mrs. Mason raised two gaunt hands and let them drop again on her knee. "I shud ha' thowt they'd ha' bin ashamed," she said. "Jenny's brass ull do 'em noa gude. She wor a fule to leave it to 'un." Daffady withdrew his pipe again. His lantern-jawed face, furrowed with slow thought, hung over the blaze. "Aye," he said, "aye. Wal, I've buried three childer--an I'm nobbut a labrin mon--but a thank the Lord I ha buried them aw--wi' ham." The last words came out with solemnity. Laura, at the other end of the kitchen, turned open-mouthed to look at the pair. Not a feature moved in either face. She sped back into the dairy, and Polly looked up in astonishment. "What ails tha?" she said.