"Some people I've got to know. Doesn't matter who. You don't know one from another, always mewed up here. I can't think how you put up with it. The life would drive me crazy. Well, I don't mind if I tell, only you're not to blab." Since Jane could not escape, she felt the need for a confidante. "It's at the Sparks'—Mr. Andrew Sparks and his wife. They've got a dairy, and the Parkinses are their cousins. That's how I've got to know them." "You said there was a young Parkins." Jane giggled. "Well, so there is. And a young Mr. Jones. I shouldn't wonder if they'd both be there." "Jones is the butcher." Jane nodded. "And there's a Mr. Winter too. I like him best. He's as clever as anything." "You know what the Squire said," murmured Winnie. Jane snapped derisive fingers. "I wouldn't give that for the Squire!" she declared. "I say!—here come folks. Caught in the storm, I suppose. Goodness me—it's Miss Stirling and Miss Winton, and that fine new widow-lady—Mrs. Brutt." Jane knew by sight pretty nearly everyone within a compass of ten miles. A ring demanded admittance; and the three ladies crowded into the narrow passage, thankful to escape from a fresh downpour. They had left the carriage at the beginning of the grass-path; and when half-way through the meadow had been overtaken by such a pelt, that they had found shelter in a shed. A slight lessening had encouraged them to hurry on; and Mrs. Brutt was breathless with the final rush. "What a deluge!" she panted, glancing ruefully down at her handsome silk. "Really, it is quite a mercy that we were so near the farm. We should have been soaked to the skin in the open carriage,—without even umbrellas." "I hope Thomas will find shelter somewhere till the storm is over," Katherine said in her gentle indifferent voice, as she turned to meet a woman coming downstairs. "Mrs. Morris?" she asked. Mrs. Morris's "Yes" was sufficiently curt. Katherine held out a hand, with her distant graciousness, and it was taken slowly. "I have only just heard of your being here. Once, long ago, you nursed me, I think, through a long illness, when I was a little child. You were—Nurse Molly." "That's the name I went by." "I came this way on purpose to see you—not thinking that we should be so glad to escape from the rain. It was fine when we started." Katherine smiled kindly; but no response was visible on the expressionless face. "I cannot of course remember you, but—" she hesitated, thrown back by the other's immobility—"I have always heard that I owed my life to your care; and I wished to thank you." As she said the words, Katherine silently wondered—was it a thing to be thankful for, this life which meant such a stretch of pain lying ahead, if things went as she feared? Then she rebuked herself for the thought.