Indeed, at this moment, his companion was uttering a pleasantry at the farmer's expense. She had come on an errand from Buckland village, a mile away, and loitered because she esteemed the humorous qualities of Mr. Stockman and herself found laughter a source to existence. She needed this addition. Her lot had not been one of great emotions, or pleasures, for Melinda Honeysett was a widow after three uneven years of marriage. They passed before she was five and twenty, when a drunken husband, riding a horse that would not "carry beer," was pitched off in the night on Dunstone Down and broke his neck. She had no children and now lived with a bed-ridden father and ministered to him in the village. This had been her life for nearly twenty years. She was a connection of Joseph Stockman through her marriage, for the Bamseys and the Stockmans and the Honeysetts were related, though neither family exactly knew how. "A day of great events," said the farmer. "My two new hands both coming and, as my manner is, I hope the best, but fear the worst." "A horseman and a cowman, so Susan said." "Yes. But that means more than the words on a little place like this, as I made clear. In fact, they've got to do pretty much everything--with such help as I can give and Neddy Tutt." "Hope they'll be all right. But they mustn't count on a poor, weak, old man like you, of course." Mr. Stockman looked into Melinda's face. She was a chubby, red-haired woman built on massive lines with a bosom that threatened to burst its lavender print, and a broad, beamy body beneath. She had a pair of pale blue eyes and a finely modelled mouth, not devoid of character. Her teeth were neglected. She wore a white sunbonnet, which threw a cool shadow over her face, and carried a basket, now full of small carrots and large lettuces. "You poke your fun at me, forgetting I've done ten men's work in my time and must slack off," he said. "Because, thanks to plain living and moderation in all things, and the widowed state with all its restfulness, I don't look my age, that's not to say I don't feel it, I can assure you. There's certain rights I owe to myself--the only person as ever I did owe anything to in my life--and even if I was fool enough to want to make a martyr of myself, which I'm not--even so Soosie-Toosie would never let me." "I'm sure she wouldn't." "My daughter knows where the shoe pinches; and that's in my breathing parts. Often I'll stand to work like a young man, knowing all the time I shall have to pay for it with a long rest after." "Poor chap!" He shook his head. "You be among the unbelievers I see--that's your father's bad work. But since he don't believe in nothing, I can't hope he'll ever believe in me." "But the new men. Tell me about them. What are they like?"