Tom told of a successful stroke at Totnes market and was pleased with himself. “The year’s begun well,” he said. “I ain’t one to count my chickens before they’re hatched, but I never had such lambs in my life and the quality’s as high as the numbers.” “And no more than you deserve,” said his wife; “rewards come where they are due, and such a man as you did ought to be looked after. Oh, dear—there’s Jenny again, I’m afraid, Lydia.” Mrs. Trivett departed a third time and presently returned. “A little bit of temper, I’m afraid. She’s crying out for an orange to suck, and that’s the last thing she can have.” “I wouldn’t call it temper,” argued Jenny’s mother. “No child of mine have got what you’d call temper, Lydia.” “That’s where we don’t agree then,” answered her sister-in-law. “I’m fond of Jenny, as you well know; but what she’s got to fight against is temper, in my opinion. We mustn’t spoil her.” “If that happens, it won’t be me, nor yet her father that does the harm,” declared Mary placidly. “Where children come, you’ll generally find that wisdom is sent to manage them, and I do think that Tom and me know something about how to manage our own.” “It’s so long ago since you had your daughter to bring up, that very like you’ve forgotten the early stages, Lydia,” suggested Tom. “And in any case, though God knows I’d never have whispered it to you if you hadn’t said Jenny suffered from temper—in any case, when you look at Medora, you can’t be none too sure your way of upbringing was the best,” murmured Mrs. Dolbear. Mrs. Trivett smiled to herself and threaded another needle. She knew Mary very well and was not in the least concerned for this little flash. It meant nothing whatever. Mary was a worm who only wriggled if one of her progeny was trodden on. There was another shout from Jenny and Lydia took no notice, while both Tom and Mary looked at her inquiringly. Then she spoke. “I never like to trouble you people about my own affairs, because, naturally, you’ve got no time to think about a humble person like me.” “Don’t say that, Lydia,” said her brother. “Ain’t you one of us and ain’t our good your good?” “Yes; but it’s borne in on me, Tom, we can’t live for other people. I’ve got my own life to live too. I’ve got my work, and I earn my living just as much as you do.” “Meanwhile that sick child’s yowling her head off,” said Mary sadly. “She said she hated me last time I went up, so I can’t go up again,” declared Mrs. Trivett, “not till she’s asleep.” “A child’s a child,” replied the mother, “and if you’re going to take that line about ’em—” She rose ponderously and lumbered from the room. “You’ve hurt her feelings,” grumbled Tom. “What’s the matter with you this evening, Lydia? If anybody’s vexed you, best to have it out and not sulk over it.” “Funny I should be in hot water with you and Polly to-night,” answered Mrs. Trivett. “But you ought to choose your words cleverer, Tom. I don’t sulk, my dear, whatever my faults.”