“I suppose it is,” said Lady Royd, with a petulant shrug of the shoulders; “but it is tiresome of you, Nance, to remind one of the end of all things pleasant. Oh, by your leave, my dear, no talk of faith! I’ve had no other food to live on these last months, and I need a change of diet, girl, need--just my man’s arms about me, and his voice bidding me take heart again. I tell you, we’re not strong, we women, without our men to help us.” Nance remembered her liking for Will Underwood, the shameful end of it; remembered Rupert, tramping overhead not long ago with Simon Foster and disdaining all the songs that should have brought him to her side. And her grasp of life grew firmer on the sudden. It was true, as spoiled, wayward Lady Royd had said, that women, since the world’s beginning, need the strong arms of their men about them. Simon Foster, meanwhile, had done his round of the house, had said good-night to Rupert; and afterwards he had gone down to the kitchens, his step like a lover’s. He did not find Martha there, and answered the sly banter of the women-servants by saying that he needed to cross to the mistals, to see how the roan cow, that was sick of milk-fever, was faring. “You’ll find Martha there,” said a pert scullery-maid; “and I’m sorry for the roan cow, Simon.” “And why?” asked Simon, tired long since of all women except one. “Well, you alone--or Martha alone--you’re kindly with all ailments. But, put the two o’ you together--within kissing distance--and the roan cow must learn to bellow if she needs be heard.” Simon Foster turned about. He was the lone man fighting for his liberty. “I’m fair blanketed with women these days,” he growled. “Their lile, daft ways go meeting a plain man at every turning of the stairs.” “One maid’s lile, daft ways have sent your wits astray, Simon,” purred his adversary. Simon straightened his bent shoulders. The young light was in his eyes again. He looked comely; for a man at bay shows always the qualities that are hidden by sleek prosperity. “Well, yes,” he said; “but Martha happens to be worth twenty of you silly kitchen wenches--that’s why I chose her.” The pert maid took up a clout from the table, aimed it at Simon, and missed him by three feet or so. “The master could teach you a lesson,” he chuckled. “We’ve been up the pastures these days, shooting. And master has got a bee in his bonnet, like, about this gunshot business. ‘Simon,’ he says to me, no further back than yesterday, ‘there’s nothing matters, except to see straight and to aim straight. We may be needed by and by.’” It was so that Simon got away, and went out a conqueror for his little moment, because he had silenced the strife of women’s tongues. Across the darkness of the mistal-yard a lanthorn came glimmering fitfully, as Martha crossed from the byres to the house. “Well, Martha?” said Foster, striding into the flickering belt of light.