“Eh, well, folks all has their bad times,” she answered at last, in a defiant tone that yet, in spite of her efforts, held a distinct element of apology. “I don’t know what was the matter, I’m sure. A touch o’ flu, likely—there was a deal about. Anyway, I got over it mighty sharp,” she went on valiantly. “If you know so much, I reckon you’ll know that! There’s not many can get through the work I can, even now, and that’s the truth. As for kicking table and suchlike, your spot is a bit dark, Emma, coming out of the sun.” “Seems like as if there might be summat amiss with your eyes,” was all Emma’s response to this, fixing her with her own beady, black orbs which looked as if they would last to the Judgment and beyond. “It’s queer how folks don’t always notice when they’re breaking up. I’ve known some on ’em go on exactly the same for years and years, and then all of a sudden stop like a clock. There was Mr. Perry, you’ll think on, reading lessons on Sunday evening as throng as a laying hen, and almost before you could speak he was going about with a stick and a dog. Then there was that fine, big Mrs. Chell, much the same build as you, dancing as light as a bubbly-jock at the Farmers’ Ball, and next day stiff as a board. Nay, when folks is most certain, yon’s the time to look out; so don’t get boasting, Ann Clapham, for fear of a judgment.” “Nay, but I’m not boasting—nowt o’ the sort!” The charwoman’s hands, at work again on her knees, actually threatened to rub a hole in the good black gown. “I’ve never been one to get above myself and I’m not now. I’m just thankful, that’s all—cheerful and thankful I’m so fit and well.” “Ay, well, don’t think so much about it, that’s all I’m meaning to say. Don’t count on it overmuch. What, you’d never have put in for yon almshouse if you hadn’t felt you was done!” “I put in for it because I’d earned it—not because I was wore out!” Mrs. Clapham’s face was almost purple, and her hands worked like a rubbing-machine. The suggestion was intolerable to her that she was something come to an end, a finished, miserable object creeping into a hole. Again she forgot that she had ever felt that she couldn’t go on ... forgot that Emma had seen her when she felt she couldn’t go on.... “I might be a broken-kneed bus-horse, the way you talk!” she concluded with an attempt at humour, though with all her fighting spirit aroused by the assumption that she was no longer worth her salt. Rather to her surprise, however, Emma retired from battle on this particular point. “Ay, you’ve earned it, that’s true,” she answered amiably, and almost eagerly, “and I’m sure I hope you’ll be right happy! I only meant it was lucky you hadn’t to go on with your job. Likely you’ll live to be ninety when you get up to yon house.”