She moved along the hedge, smoothing her brown hair down, and showing the muscles in her big brown arms. “Come in, sir, and be welcome. Will, Will, you little frummet, what be you doing there, terrifying all of us with puddling round in the mud?” She opened the gate for John Gore and gave him a curtesy, for Winnie Jennifer had served as woman in a great house, and her manners and her speech were less quaint that Mr. Christopher’s. “Come in, sir; my man will be up from the ploughland soon. Dinner will be coming, though it be only rough stuff.” John Gore dismounted, and made Mrs. Winnie a slight bow. “You offered me your good-will,” he said, frankly, “and I have come to take it—as a friend.” He led his horse toward the stable while Chris Jennifer’s wife bustled into the house, putting washing-day behind her with good-natured patience. John Gore found her going into the little old parlor with an apron full of sticks, but he protested that the kitchen ingle-nook would do for him, and that he liked the smell of dinner. So he sat himself down in the nook under the hood of the great fireplace, stretching his legs out to the fire, and wondering what he would say to Christopher Jennifer’s wife. There was a pot boiling over the fire, and Mrs. Winnie began to gather her flour and things upon the table for the making of a pudding. She took a great pot of preserves from a cupboard, and set to work very sensibly in her practical, brown-armed way. “If I had known, sir, I wouldn’t have put an old one in the pot.” “Old one?” “One of the old hens, sir; they’re not so bad when you boil ’em. I’ll make up some herb sauce to help the old lady down.” Now whether it was the warmth of the fire, or the frank freshness of Mrs. Winnie’s manner, John Gore found himself telling her enough of the truth to set the woman in her heartily at his service. She forgot her pudding in her sympathy, even so far as to stir the air with a wooden spoon and to spill jam upon the table. John Gore had come to the pith of the matter when he saw her flourish the spoon threateningly in the direction of the back-yard door. “Will, you little spying rogue, get you out and look for the eggs.” “There ain’t none,” came the retort; “t’ birds be moultin’.” “Don’t answer me, young man; do what I tell ye.” And she made a step forward that sent the youngster running for fear of the spoon. Mrs. Winnie turned to her pudding, casting a look now and again at the grim, brown-faced man in the ingle-nook. “You move me—powerful, sir. As sure as I love my man, sir, coming to him as a clean maid as I did, with all my linen and my savings, if it be no liberty on my part—I’ll ask to serve you—as you please. Come into this house as yours, sir; come and go, and we’ll ask no questions. My man and I will thank God for it, that we can give you service for what you did.”