“I stand corrected,” answered Mr. Dolbear instantly. “God knows I’ve no wish to quarrel with you, Lydia—no, nor would Polly. We’ve got a great respect for you. As for our children—but you know what you are to them. And we feel that nothing’s too good for you; and if I could afford to let you live here without paying your seven and six-pence a week, I’d thankfully let you—thankfully. But with such a family as mine—” “For some things, however, if you had a paid woman to look after the children, it might suit their mother better. She’d feel freer to speak her mind.” “Certainly not,” he answered. “We don’t want no hirelings about the children—not while we’ve got you. We couldn’t trust anybody like we trust you; and Polly would never be the same woman, or get her needful share of rest and peace with a lesser than you. And some day, I hope to make you free of everything, and not let any money question arise between us.” “I’m not worrying about my keep, Tom. Whatever else he may be, Jordan Kellock has got a very good respect of me, and though I shall never like him as well as Ned, yet he’s an honourable, upright man according to his lights and I can trust him. Indeed he’s gone so far as to say he’d like me to lead a different life; for he’s the same as Dingle there: he doesn’t think it’s a very wise thing for an elderly woman to be quite so busy as I am.” “Like his damned impertinence! And what does he mean by that, Priory Farm, or the Mill?” Mrs. Dolbear returned at this moment; she was fretful. “I don’t know whatever you’ve done to Jenny. A proper tantarra the poor maid’s in.” “I told her she couldn’t have another orange to-night, that’s all.” “Listen to this!” burst out Tom. “That blasted Kellock has been saying Lydia’s over-worked!” “Who by?” asked his wife. “That’s just what I want to know.” “If he means the Mill, he’s right, I believe,” continued Mary. “I’ve often wished she’d see her way to give up that troublesome work in the rag house and stop here with us, in comfort and ease, with our little ones to play with her.” “Or I might marry again and have a home of my own,” suggested Lydia. “I’m the independent sort, Mary, and I often think it would be wiser to do that than stop along with you as a lodger.” There was a moment of silence, then Mr. Dolbear flung his clay pipe upon the hearth with such fury that it splintered into a thousand fragments. “What in hell’s happened to-day?” he almost shouted. “Here I come home with good news—great news, you may say—and instead of sharing our pleasure and being glad, for the children’s sake if not for ours, that I’ve had a stroke of luck, you do every damned thing you can think of to pour cold water on it!”