“Just taking the milk to the Workhouse,” she informed them, as they appeared through the little gate. “Martindale is laid up with rheumatics, and there’s some complaint I want to settle in person. Stubbs is indoors, if you’ve brought that dull-looking inkhorn-stuff for him. You might keep him stodging at it till I get back. I shan’t be long, so don’t clear out before I’ve had a chin with you. Right, horse--get along off!” She spun out of the yard with the flashing cans, flourishing her whip as she rounded the turn, and swaying easily to the swing of the trap. Hamer looked after her admiringly. “I like a woman with a straight back!” he observed. “It means a lot more than you’d think. It’s a pleasure to watch that girl move. She’s real grit bent on getting there all the time!” “Ay, she’s a devil to meet, but an angel to follow!” Stubbs commented at his elbow. “She’s got my figure”--the check swelled proudly--“but I’m hanged if she’s got my face! Deuced plain, _I_ call her. Don’t know where she picked it up. And the very dickens for language, though I’m d----d if I know where she gets _that_, either! Come along in, won’t you, and have a glass of--snow about somewhere, I’ll swear!” Through the deep-seated porch into the narrow passage, where a staring stag’s head threatened their own from the pink-washed wall, they came into the snug parlour, and soon Hamer and Stubbs were happy with a fat book between them under the lamp on the round table. The fire chuckled merrily, and the lustre ornaments on the mantelpiece caught the dancing light and flashed it on to the brass candlesticks and a gilt beer-barrel of a clock. Above the clock was a black paper silhouette of Harriet’s grandfather, _the_ John Knewstubb, Prop of the County. It was a man’s room, from the business-like bureau to the prints and the books--county, agricultural, sporting and veterinary--the leather leggings flung at the side of the hearth, and the silver-bound carriage-whip in the corner. Yet it was here that Harriet spent most of her scanty indoor hours, and the room was as much hers as her father’s. There was no sign of feminine occupation, nor a single softening touch, but for all that it was cosy and cheerful with the homeliness that clings imperishably to the farm-house, the fundamental, abiding home of all. It had the real farm-house smell, too--Dandy was beginning to recognise it, and was proud of the fact--the smell that registered it as the Holy of Holies of many a past generation. A kitten was flung, white-pawed and drowsy, on the red window-seat, and, drawing it to her knee, she looked through the narrow panes into the gathering shadows. Hamer glanced up once from the printed page and across to her dreaming face, and a look of whimsical distress came into his own. He had lost his girl, he knew that; had known it ever since the night she had danced with the fairies through a Gate of Vision.