She was once more her quick, shrewd self. All trace of the tears that had surprised her while Mary Batchelor was describing her son's death had passed away. Her half-malicious eyes glanced to right and left, peering into the secrets of the village. "And these are the people that talk of starving!" she said to George, scornfully, as they emerged into the open road. "Why, anyone can see--" George, suddenly returned from a reverie, understood what she was saying, and remarked, with an odd look: "You think their houses aren't so bad? One is always a little surprised--don't you think?--when the poor are comfortable? One takes it as something to one's own credit--I detect it in myself scores of times. Well!--one seems to say--they _could_ have done without it--one might have kept it for oneself--what a fine generous fellow I am!" He laughed. "I didn't mean that at all," said Letty, protesting. "Didn't you? Well, after all, darling--you see, you don't have to live in those houses, nice as they are--and you don't have to do your own scrubbing. Ferth may be a vile hole, but I suppose you could put a score of these houses inside it--and I'm a pauper, but I can provide you with two housemaids. I say, why do you walk so far away from me?" And in spite of her resistance, he took her hand, put it through his arm, and held it there. "Look at me, darling," he said imperiously. "How _can_ anyone spy upon us with these trees and high walls? I want to see how pretty and fresh you look--I want to forget that poor thing and her tale. Do you know that somewhere--far down in me--there's a sort of black pool--and when anything stirs it up--for the moment I want to hang myself--the world seems such an awful place! It got stirred up just now--not while she was talking--but just as I looked back at that miserable old soul, standing at her door. She used to be such a jolly old thing--always happy in her Bible--and in Jamie, I suppose--quite sure that she was going to a nice heaven, and would only have to wait a little bit, till Jamie got there too. She seemed to know all about the Almighty's plans for herself and everybody else. Her drunken husband was dead; my father left her a bit of money, so did an old uncle, I believe. She'd gossip and pray and preach with anybody. And now she'll weep and pine like that till she dies--and she isn't sure even about heaven any more--and instead of Jamie, she's got that oafish lad, that changeling, hung round her neck--to kick her and ill-treat her in another year or two. Well! and do you ever think that something like that has got to happen to all of us--something hideous--some torture--something that'll make us wish we'd never been born? Darling, am I a mad sort of a fool? Stop here--in the shade--give me a kiss!"