July passed. Odiam was no longer cut off from the rest of the world by lime. Reuben with the courage of despair began to organise his shattered strength. He discharged Piper--now that his cows were gone he could easily do with a hand less. He sometimes wondered why he had not discharged Handshut, but the answer was always ready--Handshut was far the better workman, and Odiam now came easily before Rose. Not that Reuben's jealousies had left him--they still persisted, though in a different form. The difference lay in the fact that now he would not sacrifice to them the smallest scrap of Odiam's welfare. He sometimes asked himself why he was still jealous. Rose no longer gave him provocation, she was much quieter than she had used to be, and seemed busy with her children and straitened house-keeping. It was once more a case of instinct, of a certain vague sensing of her aloofness. Often he did not trouble about it, but sometimes it seared through him like a hot bar. One evening he came home particularly depressed. He had just finished the most degrading transaction of his life--the raising of a mortgage on the Flightshot side of his land. It was horrible, but it was unavoidable. He could not now sell his milk-round, and yet he absolutely must have ready money if he was to stand up against circumstances. The mortgagee was a wealthy Rye butcher, and Reuben had hopes that the disgraceful affair might be kept secret, but also an uneasy suspicion that it was at that moment being discussed in every public-house. He went straight to find Rose, for that mood was upon him. The due of loneliness which his shame demanded had been paid during the drive home from Rye, and now he quite simply and childishly wanted his wife. She was in the kitchen, stooping over some child's garment, the little frills of which she was pleating in her fingers. She lifted her head with a start as he came in, and he saw that her face was patched with tearstains. "Wot've you bin crying for?" he asked as he slid a chair close to hers. He wondered if the humiliation of Odiam had at last come to mean to her a little of what it meant to him. "I haven't been crying." "But your face ..." "That's the heat." He drew back from her a little. Why should she lie to him about her tears? "Oh, well, if you döan't choose to tell me ... But I've eyes in my head." She seemed anxious to propitiate him. "How did it go off? Have you settled with Apps?" He nodded. "It's all over now--I've touched bottom." "Nonsense, Ben. You mustn't say that. After all there's nothing extraordinary about a mortgage--uncle had one for years on a bit of his farm at Rowfant. Besides, think of all you've got left." He laughed bitterly. "I äun't got much left." Then suddenly he turned towards her as she sat there by him, her head bowed over her work--her delicate, rather impertinent nose outlined against the firelight, her cheek and neck bewitched with running shadows. "But I've got you."