Clink of metals striking together, hammer sound, sound of the wheel, sound of the fed furnace, sound of voices among metals. Up and down this was the strain of the smiths’ street. Summer, autumn, winter, spring, round went the wheel. The street lay hot under the sun, the street stretched dim and breathless under clouds. Rain poured down, freshness and song of the sea drawn into the air. The wind sang his great song of vigour. Fog came and shut the eyelids of the world, then passed away and one started as from sleep. Snow fell in small flakes or in large flakes, in few or in many. The street lay white, the roofs white. All day voices in the long workroom, footsteps to and fro, sound of the craft, Diccon Dawn fashioning beautiful things. He had helpers, Jankin and a boy, and also his sister, Alice Dawn. There was that which she could do and he showed her how. Those who came that way in the smiths’ street saw a brother and sister, a tall pair, working together. Beside this, she toiled like all the women in the street. She kept the house clean, she bought the food and cooked it, she took ewer and pail and went to the well. To and fro, to and fro. At the well were women, in the street were women. She greeted and answered greeting. Sometimes she was drawn into a knot of talkers. But she spoke little herself. “Alice Dawn? Whence, then? The other end of England? Thy brother does fine work, they say. When didst learn to work with him? He has gotten thee a good gown and it sets thee like an earl’s wife!” When she was gone they talked of her. “How old should you think? She has too still ways for me! She looks like a queen. Nay, lass, to my thinking like a quean!” Clink, clink, clink in the street of the smiths. Water from the well, dashing over the stones, water brought home in great ewer or pail, balanced so.