“Mother, you’ve done with work.” She eyed him grimly. “Not till I’m dead, my lad,” she said. “Why won’t you tell me what you’re thinking of?” “I’m thinking,” she said, “of yon slut in Peter Struggles’ kitchen. I’ll have her out of that tomorrow.” He glanced at Effie, and then looked again. He fancied he had surprised a little smile on Effie’s face and looked twice to make sure. And when he looked he found that Effie was looking back at him in the wise, humorous way that he had come to know so well. “Don’t you see?” was what she seemed to say. And he did see. He saw that it was not Manchester, but a man in Manchester; not the woman in Peter Struggles’ kitchen, but the man in Peter’s parlour who interrupted his mother’s vision of the Marbeck hills. She lost their beauty in a greater beauty of her own. “And don’t be incredulous,” said Effie’s eyes. She turned to Anne. “We’ll go down to the Inn at once,” she said, “and you shall catch the train this afternoon.” A quick look passed from Anne to Effie, from which they both excluded Sam. It almost seemed that Anne was asking Effie for support, and that Effie understood and nodded imperceptibly. And if Anne had seriously doubted, her doubts were dissipated by a look which told her that, where she was concerned, Effie believed in the feasibility of anything. Nothing at Marbeck became Anne Branstone like her leaving it. “Why, mother, how young you look!” he cried when she came downstairs to the trap. “It’s just as well,” said Anne, meeting Effie’s eye over his shoulder. Then, after she had gone, and so pat upon her going as to be hardly decent, life flamed for them ungrudgingly. There was something quite impudently callous about the haste of it, as if life pulled a face behind the older generation and turned lightheartedly to burn more ardently for them. But Anne, and they knew it, would not have thanked them to be sorry for her. She had gone to Peter Struggles, who needed her. They could not now resume the half amphibious life of their autumn days, but the air itself from the snow-clad fells had all the stimulation of a bath. It cleansed and healed by touch and heightened their well-being till they moved in radiant exhilaration, now clamant at the joy of it, now dumb before its wonder. Happy themselves, they were the cause of happiness in others, not self-contained in joy, but effervescing to the old black-beamed kitchen of the Marbeck Inn.