Without being absolutely unkind to her, Zerah was ungracious. She held Kate at arm’s length, spoke to her in harsh and peremptory tones, looked at her with contracted pupils and with puckered brow. Filled with resentment against Providence, she made the child feel her disappointment and antagonism. The reserve, the lack of light-heartedness in the child told against her, and Zerah little considered that this temperament was produced by her own ungenerous treatment. At the time of this story, Kate was of real service in the house. The Pepperills kept no domestic servant; they required none, having Kate, who was made to do whatever was necessary. Her aunt was an energetic and industrious woman, and Kate served under her direction. She assisted in the household washing, in the work of the garden, in the feeding of the poultry, in the kitchen, in all household work; and when folk came to eat cockles and drink tea, Kate was employed as waitress. For all this she got no wage, no thanks, no forbearance, no kind looks, certainly no kind words. The girl’s heart was sealed up, unread, misunderstood by those with whom she was brought into contact. She had made no friends at school, had no comrades in the village; and her father inconsiderately accepted and applied to her a nickname given her at school by her teacher, a certain Mr. Solomon Puddicombe,--a nickname derived from the burden of a foolish folk-song, “Kitty Alone.” Now the girl lay in the bottom of the boat, under Pooke’s Exeter tailor-made clothes, shivering. What would her father think of her absence? Would he be anxious, and waiting up for her? Would Aunt Zerah be angry, and give her hard words? Her eyes peered eagerly at the stars--into that great mystery above. “They are turning,” she said. “What are turning?” asked Pooke. “Ain’t you asleep, as you ought to be?” “When I was waiting for you at the Hard, I saw them beginning to twinkle.” “What did you see?” “Yonder, those stars. There are four making a sort of a box, and then three more in a curve.” “That is the Plough.” “Well, it is something like a plough. It is turning about in the sky. When I was waiting for the Atmospheric, I saw it in one way, and now it is all turned about different.” “I daresay it is.” “But why does it turn about?” “When I’ve ploughed to one end of a field, I turn the plough so as to run back.” “But this isn’t a real plough.” “I know nothing about it,” said Pooke desperately; “and, what is more, I won’t stand questioning. This is a ferry-boat, not a National School, and you are Kitty Quarm, not Mr. Puddicombe. I haven’t anything more of learning to go through the rest of my days, thankful to say.”