She shook her head. “No, Jerry; we’ll stay where we are, surelye. You’re hedge-born, but I’m house-born, and I lik four walls around me when I’m vrothered. Now, lad, doan’t that show you as we two cud never mate?” “So, I’m vrothering you, am I?” “Unaccountable.” “Reckon I didn’t vrother you when I clipped you in the lane by the stack of Slivericks.” “Doan’t ’ee....” His strange power over her was coming back. Looking into his eyes she seemed to see strange secrets of woods, memories of roads and stars, and a light that was like the light of a burning wood, such as she had once seen, licking up from the west, burning the little farm and the barns. She was frightened of Jerry, just as she was frightened of Dallington churchyard at night, or that field-corner by Padgham, where strange lights are sometimes seen. Yet it was a fear which instead of making her run, made her stumble and droop towards him, seeking refuge from terror in its source.... He pushed her away. “Reckon you’ll be kissing another lad to-night.” She felt flustered and miserable. “You’re a lamentable trial to me, Jerry.” “Why? ’Cos I’ve kissed you? It’s nothing. I’ll be kissing another girl to-night.” “You’re a valiant feller.” “Ain’t I? You think the world of me, Ivy Beatup.” “Do I? That’s news. Now doan’t start it all over again. I hear mother coming.” Mrs. Beatup’s step creaked outside, and Jerry scowled at the door. The next moment he was astride the window-sill, a queer furtive look in his eyes. “You aun’t going out lik that, surelye! I’m ashamed of you. Stay and spik to mother like a Christian.” But he had swung his leg over, and slid into the yard. She heard him run off, with padding footsteps like a beast. 8 The next day was Sunday. A thick yellow haze swam over the fields, and there was a faint autumnal scent in the hedges, mixed of leaves and earth. The grain-fields still smelt of summer, with the baking glumes and the white, cracked ground. Only a few had been cut—the winter sowings at Egypt and Bucksteep; the Volunteer Field and the Street Field at Worge still carried their crops, chaffy and nutty, preyed on by conies. They should have been cut last week, but Mus’ Beatup had not been himself on Friday and Saturday, and Juglery had a bad leg, and Harry had gone to Hailsham Fair.