She writhed in the grip of dread, her knees shook, her heart throbbed wildly; with misty eyes she staggered on, as one in sore need of succour; more than once she had to lean against the trees not to fall. “And perhaps he is only writing about money!...” Her steps began to flag; the letter had become a burden, a torment to her; she was always shifting it from hands to bosom and back again. Nobody seemed at home at the organist’s. All the doors were open, all the rooms empty. One window had a petticoat hung up in lieu of curtain, and a sound of snoring proceeded thence. She advanced timidly towards the passage, looking round her at the yard. A servant-girl was sitting at the kitchen-door, churning butter and driving flies away with a bough. “Where’s your mistress?” “In the garden; ye’ll hear her soon!” Teresa remained standing there, crushing the letter in her hand, and drawing her kerchief forward over her head, for the sun was now shining directly from above the sheds. Fowls cackled noisily from the priest’s yard, separated only by a hedge from the other: ducks were riotous in pools, little turkeys plaintively clamorous near the hedge; big gobbling turkey-cocks, with drooping wings, made furious onsets at sucking-pigs wallowing in the mire; and pigeons circled in air, slowly settling—a snow-white cloud—on the red roof. Teresa’s eyes were wet. She averted her face to ask: “Is the organist within?” “Where else? His Reverence is away, so he has lain down to sleep again.” “The priest has gone to the fair, no doubt?” “Ah, yes; to purchase a bull.” “What, has he not possessions enough?” “Whoso has much wants more,” the servant grunted. Teresa was silent awhile. It was hard that she should have so little, and others so much! “Mistress is coming!” the servant announced, working the dasher up and down in the churn so violently that the cream spurted out. “’Tis all your doing, lazy boy! you let the horse into the clover on purpose because ye had no mind to go as far as the fallows!” she was heard to scream. “Two rods of clover eaten! But I’ll tell your uncle at once, you good-for-nothing, and you’ll get such a beating!” “But I drove it to the fallows myself, I did, and tethered it to the ring!” “No lies! Your uncle will have a talk with you!” “But I tell you, Aunt, I did not drive any horse there.” “Who did, then? His Reverence, eh?” she asked sarcastically. “Ye have guessed, Aunt. Aye, the priest has grazed his horses there,” the lad replied, raising his voice. “Are you mad? Hold your tongue, lest someone hear.”