“Eh, but it’s a shame, though, that it is—and you wi’ your lame leg an’ all! Not so young as you was, neither.” She was careful, however, not to lay too much stress upon age. “You’ve a right to your rest.” “I can work till I drop....” There was a pause, and then Emma changed her tactics again, or, rather, intensified them. Coming slightly nearer, she inclined her stiff little figure—the nearest approach that she had ever been known to make to an actual bend. “Hark ye, Ann Clapham!” she began rather breathlessly, and in a voice that actually shook. “Let’s talk this matter over reasonable-like; let’s thrash it out, you and me. I don’t mind telling you right off the reel as I’m right set on having them barns. You mustn’t take it amiss if I mention for once as they’re my grandchildren as well as yours. When all’s said and done, they’re the barns o’ my poor lad as went down in t’ War. They’re that like him an’ all; it’s only in nature I should want to have ’em. Likely they don’t think much of me, as you say, but I could soon learn ’em. Children often take queer-like fancies agen the people as likes ’em best.” Again Mrs. Clapham’s face came slowly round towards the one that was almost bending over her. “What was it you did to Poor Stephen?” she inquired dully. Emma reddened in spite of herself, a dark-red flush very different from the glow of excitement with which she had come in. As Mrs. Clapham looked, something seemed to rise up in her that would no longer be repressed, something that rose and rose as if determined to break into speech, but was finally beaten at the door of her open mouth. You saw it yield, as it were, sink, die down, fall and fade away, thrust back on its chain into the place from which it had come.... “Nay, now, you’re never going to rake that up again, surely!” she demanded, though quite gently. “I never see such a clattin’ spot as this here village! They’ll never let owt die. I did think they’d put a string to their tongues when Stephen went down in t’ War, but seemingly I was wrong. Of course I’ve known all along as they thought I didn’t do right by my poor lad. A ter’ble grief it’s been to me an’ all, though I never let on. I shouldn’t be speaking of it now if it was to anybody but you!” She gave a deep sigh, crossed her arms and uncrossed them again, and it seemed to Mrs. Clapham that her lips actually trembled. “That’s all very well, Emma Catterall,” she replied presently, in the same dull tone of condemnation, “but there’s no getting past the fact you were right bad to Poor Stephen. You know best what you did to the poor lad; I won’t say how I know it, too. But all the lot on us who was living here then know he was half-clemmed and nearly daft.” “Stephen told you I was bad to him, I reckon?” Emma’s tone was injured but patient. “Stephen told your Tibbie, and your Tibbie told you?” Tibbie’s mother looked a trifle abashed. “Nay, what, haven’t I said we could all on us see it at the time?”