“It’s nice of you to feel that way, I’m sure....” Mrs. Clapham’s tone was more uncomfortable than ever, and the rubbing that began again was now not so much from emotion as to assist the processes of her mind. The something that kept calling to her for help was getting louder and louder with every minute. On no account must Emma attend the funeral, the something said, but for the life of her she could not tell what the impediment was to be. “You’re not so well, neither—not fit to go alone. Mrs. James said you’d twisted your knee.” “A bit of a wrench, happen,” was the unwilling admission. “I’ll be right enough soon.” “Anyway, I could help a bit if I came along,” Emma persisted. “There’s always a deal to do at a burying; always a sight o’ work. There’ll be the children to bring back an’ all.” “The children?” Mrs. Clapham sat up straight as a dart at that, her eyes nearly as bright as Emma’s. It was plain enough now what the something was trying to say, calling and crying and clamouring at her ear. With a reeling mind, she fixed her eyes fiercely on Emma’s face, but Emma’s face never changed. Only the hand on the table twitched, and then the hand at her waist; and then the hand on the table again, and then the hand at her waist.... “Ay, the children,” she repeated quietly, composedly meeting the other’s gaze. “You’ve never forgotten the poor things?” But that, incredible as it seemed, was just precisely what had actually happened. Mrs. Clapham’s mind which, only that afternoon, had accomplished with ease a backward leap of at least forty years, had, on returning, fallen short of the present. Like the chair, it had put its stopping-point at the new generation. Tibbie’s death had brought back to her almost all that Tibbie had meant, but it had not succeeded in bringing her more than Tibbie. The child, indeed, had been with her, but not the girl with her scissors and silks; still less had she visioned the soldier’s widow, with Emma’s grandchildren in her arms! “I thought I’d best be on t’ spot,” Emma continued, after the pause, “seeing as the poor lile things’ll likely be coming to me.” The quiet words, falling so gently yet indisputably on her ear, acted upon Mrs. Clapham like a galvanic battery. In a moment she was stirred finally out of her dull pose, ready for battle, ardently on her defence. Scorn stiffened her backbone and put fresh energy into her frame. But for her knee she would have been on her feet in the first instant. Erect in her chair, she stared at the speaker with such mockery that the latter quivered. “Coming to you?...” She repeated the words slowly, as if the mere sound of them in another’s mouth was sufficient in itself to convey the fact of their arrant folly. “My Tibbie’s barns coming to _you_?”