“_Why_ do you sleep with _my_ mother? My mother sleeps with me,” her voice quivering. “You come as well, an’ sleep with both of us,” he coaxed. “Mother!” she cried, turning, appealing against him. “But I must have a husband, darling. All women must have a husband.” “And you like to have a father with your mother, don’t you?” said Brangwen. Anna glowered at him. She seemed to cogitate. “No,” she cried fiercely at length, “no, I don’t _want._” And slowly her face puckered, she sobbed bitterly. He stood and watched her, sorry. But there could be no altering it. Which, when she knew, she became quiet. He was easy with her, talking to her, taking her to see the live creatures, bringing her the first chickens in his cap, taking her to gather the eggs, letting her throw crusts to the horse. She would easily accompany him, and take all he had to give, but she remained neutral still. She was curiously, incomprehensibly jealous of her mother, always anxiously concerned about her. If Brangwen drove with his wife to Nottingham, Anna ran about happily enough, or unconcerned, for a long time. Then, as afternoon came on, there was only one cry—“I want my mother, I want my mother——” and a bitter, pathetic sobbing that soon had the soft-hearted Tilly sobbing too. The child’s anguish was that her mother was gone, gone. Yet as a rule, Anna seemed cold, resenting her mother, critical of her. It was: “I don’t like you to do that, mother,” or, “I don’t like you to say that.” She was a sore problem to Brangwen and to all the people at the Marsh. As a rule, however, she was active, lightly flitting about the farmyard, only appearing now and again to assure herself of her mother. Happy she never seemed, but quick, sharp, absorbed, full of imagination and changeability. Tilly said she was bewitched. But it did not matter so long as she did not cry. There was something heart-rending about Anna’s crying, her childish anguish seemed so utter and so timeless, as if it were a thing of all the ages. She made playmates of the creatures of the farmyard, talking to them, telling them the stories she had from her mother, counselling them and correcting them. Brangwen found her at the gate leading to the paddock and to the duckpond. She was peering through the bars and shouting to the stately white geese, that stood in a curving line: “You’re not to call at people when they want to come. You must not do it.” The heavy, balanced birds looked at the fierce little face and the fleece of keen hair thrust between the bars, and they raised their heads and swayed off, producing the long, can-canking, protesting noise of geese, rocking their ship-like, beautiful white bodies in a line beyond the gate. “You’re naughty, you’re naughty,” cried Anna, tears of dismay and vexation in her eyes. And she stamped her slipper. “Why, what are they doing?” said Brangwen. “They won’t let me come in,” she said, turning her flushed little face to him.