“Well, I don’t rightly know, my dear,” she replied after a pause. “There’s times when I mid fancy it, and there’s other times when I do truly think I do go out to show father the pens. Last week ’twas—’twas father’s week ye know—I did get my shoes quite wet, an’ I did have a bit of a cold for a day or two. I think it must have come along o’ takin’ father out to see the pens.” Mrs Caines gazed resolutely at her mother, the colour once more overspreading her already sufficiently rosy face. “It’s time there was an end o’ this,” she announced firmly. “You’ll be tumblin’ down the well some night, or else maybe go wanderin’ off the Lard knows where. No, Mother, there’s no use talkin’, the time’s come for ’ee to shift. Lady Day’s very near, an’ ’twill be so good a time as any other. I’ll speak to Squire about it. He’ll send a waggon to move as many o’ your things as be worth takin’, an’ you can come an’ bide along o’ us. The children ’ull be better company for ’ee nor they crazy notions o’ yours, an’ if ye do want to do a bit o’ mendin’ of a evenin’ ye can darn Caines’ socks.” “Nay, now, nay Phoebe, nay indeed,” cried the old woman in a shaking voice, her eyes becoming round with alarm, and her lips quivering. “I couldn’t shift, my dear, I couldn’t bide nowhere but in the wold place where I was barn, an’ where I do look to die. The only shiftin’ I’ll do ’ull be then. I’ll shift to the New House, Phoebe, my dear, whenever it be the Lard’s will to take I, but not before.” “I’ll speak to Squire about it,” persisted Phoebe. “Summat awful ’ull be happenin’ if you do go on this way. ’Tis time that he should see to it. “No, don’t ’ee go for to speak to Squire,” pleaded Lizzie. “What be the good o’ carryin’ tales to Squire? I be so happy as anything here. I don’t want for nothin’, an’ I do never feel lwonesome. If you do go puttin’ notions in Squire’s head—but you wouldn’t be so unkind, would ye, my dear?” Phoebe made no answer; the kettle boiled at this juncture, and gave an excuse for rising and rescuing it from the fire. She insisted on making tea for her mother, and, instead of reverting to the vexed topic, chatted throughout the meal so incessantly, and on such a variety of topics, that Lizzie became a trifle bewildered; and, imagining from her daughter’s altered demeanour that the latter had come round to her views, smiled pleasantly, and put in a word now and then whenever she could catch the drift of the conversation. For, if truth be told, her wits had become duller than of yore, and remarks and smiles alike were a trifle vague. Mrs Caines rose at last to take her departure, straightened her bonnet, donned her shawl, and kissed her mother affectionately.