‘O little Jesu,’ cried Meg, stretching out her clasped hands in prayer and addressing Him, ‘I can get but twelvepence a bushel for my corn, which, as Thou knowest and can see for Thyself, is worth at least fourteenpence, yea and more, were it not for the good year. Thou knowest I am no wicked regrater to demand an unjust price from poor men because of their need, but only a poor labouring woman asking for a fair recompense for having lugged this heavy sack of corn five miles this morning, and for having stood like a sick dog three hours in the cursed market-place yonder. Do but grant me, Little Jesu, fourteenpence the bushel and I will buy thee a penny wax candle at Eastertide.’ She crossed herself and said ‘Hail Mary,’ then, taking her sack, went out into the market-place. Other folk had now come in to buy and sell, amongst them several rich Roodborough merchants; the sun was beginning to drop westwards; traffic was brisker in the lengthening patch of shadow under the ‘Three Arrows.’ She went across and took her stand in the busiest of the crowd. ‘Corn, corn, d’ ye lack any fine corn,’ she cried. Presently she heard another cry ‘Corn, corn, d’ ye lack any fine corn,’ and then another, and looking round she saw a half-dozen upland folk had brought in corn with them and were selling it as fast as they could. She frowned and grated her teeth and cried the more shrilly, ‘Corn, corn, d’ ye lack any corn?’ But although some asked her how much, none stayed to buy of her. After she had stood a full hour and her knees were weak with standing and her voice worn to a whisper with crying, the Bailey and John the Miller came by. The Bailey laughed to see her still there with her corn unsold. ‘What, Meg, thou mad wench!’ he cried, ‘art thou still asking fourteenpence the bushel? Thou mightest cry it from now till Doomsday at that rate.’ ‘Fourteenpence?’ quoth John the Miller. ‘’Tis no fair price, ’tis extortionate, good Meg.’ ‘’Tis worth that or nothing,’ cried Meg hoarsely. ‘Nay then, ’tis worth nothing,’ said the Bailey, ‘for Hob of the Cross and Sim of the Wry-Mouth and the rest of the upland fellows yonder are selling as good as thine for tenpence.’ ‘Tenpence,’ screamed Meg. ‘Thou art a liar.’ ‘No liar, little Meg,’ laughed the Bailey. ‘Go thou and look.’ So Meg went and looked, and there was Hob of the Cross and Sim of the Wry-Mouth and the rest of the upland folk selling fine corn at tenpence the bushel. She grinned with rage and ground her teeth. An evil, black cloud came over her fierce face. ‘’Twas pity thou didst not let it go at twelvepence when thou hadst the chance,’ said John the Miller. Meg turned towards the Church and shook her fist passionately; she strove to blaspheme but her wrath choked her.