“It was painful at the time,” admitted Mrs. Dolbear, “because Tom’s one of they hopeful men, who will always jump at a new thing like a trout jumps at a fly. And what was the result? From the moment he hit on that cussed paper, he fed me more like a cow than a creature with a soul. ’Twas green stuff morning, noon and night—lettuce and spinach—which I hate any time—and broccoli and turnip tops and spring onions and cauliflower and Lord knows what mess till I rebelled and defied the man. I didn’t lose my temper; but I said, calm and slow, ‘Tom,’ I said, ‘if you don’t want me to be brought to a bed of cabbage next September, stop it. God’s my judge,’ I said, ‘I won’t let down another herb of the field. I want red meat,’ I told him, ‘or else I won’t be responsible.’ He argued for it, but I had my way and Lydia upheld me.” “And what was the result in the family line if I may venture to ask?” inquired Mr. Pinhey. “The result in the family line was Jane Ethel,” answered Mrs. Dolbear; “and where is Jane Ethel now, Lydia?” “In her little grave,” answered Mrs. Trivett. Her sister-in-law immediately began to weep. “Don’t you cry, my dear, it wasn’t your fault. The poor baby was born with death in her eyes, as I always said.” Mrs. Dolbear sighed and moved ponderously across the room. She was short and broad with a touzled head of golden hair and a colourless face. But her smile was beautiful and her teeth perfect. “I dare say you’ll want to talk before tea,” she suggested; “and I’ll go and have a bit of a sleep. I always say, ‘where there’s sleep, there’s hope.’ And I want more than most people, and I can take it any time in the twenty-four hours of the clock.” She waddled away and Mrs. Trivett explained. “Polly’s a proper wonder for sleep. It’s grown into a habit. She’ll call out for a nap at the most unseasonable moments. She’ll curl up anywhere and go off. We shan’t see her again till supper I shouldn’t wonder. Sit you down and tell me what you come for.” “The work you must do in this house!” said Mr. Pinhey. “I like work and this is my home.” “A home I suppose, but not what I should call an abiding place,” hazarded the man. “I don’t want no abiding place, because we know, if we’re Christians, that there’s no abiding place this side of the grave.” “You take it in your usual high spirit. And now—you’ll forgive me if I’m personal, Mrs. Trivett. You know the man that speaks.” “You want to better something I’m sure, else you wouldn’t be here.” “It is just as you say: I want to better something. We bachelors look out on life from our lonely towers, so to say, and we get a bird’s eye view of the people; and if we see a thing not all it might be, ’tis our duty in my opinion to try and set it right. And to be quite frank and in all friendship, I’m very much afraid your Medora and her husband ain’t heart and soul together as they should be. If I’m wrong, then thank God and enough said. But am I wrong?”