Teresa rode out of Gwithian in a black temper. Three days before, in another fit of temper, she had packed the house-girl from Bosula, bag and baggage, and she was finding it difficult to get another. For two days she had been canvassing the farms in vain, and now Gwithian had proved a blank draw. She could not herself cook, and the Bosula household was living on cold odds and ends, a diet which set the men grumbling and filled her with disgust. She pined for the good times when Martha was alive and three smoking meals came up daily as a matter of course. Despite the fact that she offered the best wages in the neighborhood, the girls would not look at her—saucy jades! Had she inquired she would have learnt that, as a mistress, she was reported too free with her tongue and fists. Gwithian fruitless, there was nothing for it but to try Mousehole. Teresa twisted her big horse about and set off forthwith for the fishing village in the hopes of picking up some crabber’s wench who could handle a basting pan—it was still early in the morning. A cook she must get by hook or crook; Ortho was growling a great deal at his meals—her precious Ortho! She was uneasy about her precious Ortho; his courtship of the Penaluna girl was not progressing favorably. He had not mentioned the affair, but to his doting mother all was plain as daylight. She knew perfectly well where he spent his evenings, and she knew as well as if he had told her that he was making no headway. Men successful in love do not flare like tinder at any tiny mishap, sigh and brood apart in corners, come stumbling to bed at night damning the door latches for not springing to meet their hands, the stairs for tripping them up; do not publicly, and apropos of nothing, curse all women—meaning one particular woman. Oh, no, Ortho was beating up against a head wind. Teresa was furious with the Penaluna hussy for presuming to withstand her son. She had looked higher for Ortho than a mere farmer’s daughter; but, since the farmer’s daughter did not instantly succumb, Teresa was determined Ortho should have her—the haughty baggage! After all Simeon owned the adjacent property and was undeniably well to do. The girl had looks of a sort (though the widow, being enormous herself, did not generally admire big women) and was reported a good housewife; that would solve the domestic difficulty. But the main thing was that Ortho wanted the chit, therefore he should have her. Wondering how quickest this could be contrived, she turned a corner of the lane and came upon the girl in question walking into Gwithian, a basket on her arm, her blue cloak blowing in the wind. Teresa jerked her horse up, growling, “Good morning.” “Good morning,” Mary replied and walked past. Teresa scowled after her and shouted, “Hold fast a minute!” Mary turned about. “Well?” “What whimsy tricks are you serving my boy Ortho?” said Teresa, who was nothing if not to the point.