The sick sty was visible through a half-door that gave at once air and view, and over which Nip at once bounded on to the startled Martha’s back as she hung over the prostrate pig on its bed of dirty straw. Maria belonged to the Society of Large Black Pigs, and snuffed the world through a long, fine snout; but life had evidently lost its savour, for the poor sow was turning restlessly. “Oh, Jinny!” moaned Martha. “She had thirteen last time, and I knew it was an unlucky number.” “Nonsense!” quoth Jinny gaily. “Twelve would have been less lucky—at the price I got you!” “Yes, dearie, but I’m not thinking of prices. She was a birthday present for my loneliness.” “I know,” said Jinny gently. “No, you don’t.” She wrung her hands. The self-possession Caleb had admired when the letter broke on their lives was no longer hers. “You’ve got lots of Brethren and Sisters, but I’ve got nobody to break bread with, no fraternal gatherings to go to, and even Flynt won’t be immersed, though he’s in his sixty-nine and we must all fall asleep some day. So it was a comfort to have Maria following me about everywhere like Nip does you, and I do believe she’s got more sense than the so-called Christians here, and would be the first to pray for the peace of Jerusalem with me if she could only speak. But now even Maria may be taken from me. You’ll send Jorrow at once, won’t you, dearie?” “But what’s the matter with her?” “Can’t you see? All night she kept rooting up the ground. Oh, I hope it isn’t fever.” “Rubbish! Look at the skin of her ears. And she isn’t coughing at all. What’s she been overeating?” “Nothing—only the grass Flynt has been cutting.” “Why don’t you give her a dose of castor-oil?” “She won’t take it. She knows we’ve covered it up—I told you she’s got as much brains as a Christian.” “Let me try and get it down.” “It _is_ down. The piglets ate the mess up.” “Oh dear!” laughed Jinny. “That _will_ need Jorrow. Anything else, Mrs. Flynt?” “I can’t think this morning. Ask Flynt.” Caleb, however, proved equally distraught. “There was summat extra special, Oi know,” he said, his red-shirted arm clinging heroically to Methusalem’s bridle, “for here’s the knot in my hankercher. But what it singafies Lord onny knows.” “It wasn’t a new shirt?” she suggested slyly. He shook his head. “Noa, noa; this keeps her colour as good as new. But the missus did make a talk about my Sunday neckercher.” “I’ll get you a new one. Plain or speckled?” “Oi leaves that to you, Jinny—you know more about stoylish things.” V