“Once grasp that, and I shall live in hope,” said Philander. “Let each man do his own work is a very good rule, because if you’re always helping others, there’s a tidy chance your own job’s not being properly done; and though you might argue that your own work here isn’t hurt by what you do at Priory Farm, it’s quite possible that other work is hurt. I mean the time for thought and self-improvement, and—in fact, me. For I’ve a fair call upon your time under the present conditions, and though it’s all right for Mrs. Dolbear to know you’re putting years on to your life before you’ve lived them, it isn’t all right for your true friends to hear about; and it isn’t all right for your Maker, Who certainly never intended you for a nurse-maid at fifty odd years of age—or for a rag-sorter, either. You’re ripe for higher things, and there’s independence and peace waiting for you.” “I’m going to think of it,” said Lydia. “For many reasons I’d like it, Philander Knox. You suit me very well, because you’ve got sense and character, and we seem to think alike in a lot that matters. You’ve made me fond of you, and I trust you. In fact, there’s such a lot that looks promising about it, that, for that reason, one can’t help mistrusting it. Life teaches anybody to doubt the bright side of a thing till you’ve weighed it fairly against the dark side.” “This hasn’t got no dark side,” he declared; “and if you’re honest, the longer you look at it, the brighter it will shine. So be fair to us both. Trust your own brain-power; I can’t give you better advice than that.” She promised, and that evening, though she had hardly meant to be so prompt, Lydia raised the question among her relations. Accident led to this, and threw so forcible a commentary on the conversation with Mr. Knox, that the matter sprang to her lips unsummoned, and surprised herself. Yet voiced in the kitchen of Priory Farm, from behind a pile of the children’s mending, Lydia’s tremendous statement struck even herself as almost impossibly shocking and heartless. Jenny had just suffered from an attack of croup and Lydia, of course, took the sick child into her own room, as Tom Dolbear would not let Mary do so. “I must have my night’s rest, or else I can’t do my day’s work,” he said, and his wife agreed with him. “I know Lydia will take Jenny, won’t you, dear Lydia? Jenny’s that fond of you, too. And there’s no peace for me and Tom like the peace when the childer are along with you. Because then we know they’re put first.” This evening Jenny would not go to sleep and Lydia had run up and down stairs once or twice. Then she went into a room where Milly and Clara slept—to find them also awake and clamouring for biscuits. Having fed and silenced them, she returned to the pile of mending. It was a rough, wet night and Mr. Dolbear sat and smoked by the fire, while his wife drowsed on the other side of the hearth. The last baby was asleep in its cradle near her.