"What a thought! You’re down, I see. No use saying you’re not. And of late you’ve been like this more than once. ’Tis for me to talk to you to-day, I think. ’Tis for me to tell you what I saw last Sunday at ’Meavy Cot,’ not for you to tell me what fell out after I was gone." "I’m cheerful enough--only wisht to spend such a long day away from David. He’s to Tavistock again. He’s terrible hopeful of some work there; but I hardly think he’ll get it--hasn’t been well enough eggicated, I fancy. Though clever enough, I’m sure." "He don’t know everything, however." "Who does?" "He don’t know a thing or two that even I could teach him." "Such as upholstering?" "Just so. I upholster chairs--at least I know how to. And you upholster David’s life--make it easy and comfortable and soft at the edges. But what about your life, Madge?" "Well, what about it, Bartley?" "I suppose ’tis infernal impudence of me," he said. "All the same I’m an old friend and one good turn deserves another. You’re trying to help me to get what I want; I wonder if I could help you a bit here and there?" "Whatever do you mean? And what did you see at our home that makes you say such a curious thing?" "’Tisn’t what I saw, but what I didn’t see. But there, what on God’s earth am I saying? ’Tisn’t to you I should speak." "Go on and tell me." "I can’t, for I can’t give it a name. Only somehow--look here, I’m a fool to touch this. I’m talking too soon. I must wait and see a bit more. You can’t have your mind in two places at once, Madge. I’m not myself of late and very likely I fancy things. You’d reckon I had enough to think about without mixing up myself in other people’s business. But you are different to everybody else. I feel we’ve been hunting in couples of late, and so your good’s mine." "How you run on! And that wild. I don’t know now what you’re talking about, you silly chap." "More do I. I only know two things for certain. And one is that my mother is worse, and the other is that your sister-in-law was jolly interested in what I said about Canada. Did you mark that?" "She was. The wildness and bigness of the land would draw her to it. I meant to tell you. After you’d gone--but I am so sorry about your dear mother. I thought last week that she seemed a little better." "No--not really. It’s got to be. God knows that if talking would mend her, I’d talk for a year. But it won’t. So go on about Rhoda, please." "Well, she didn’t say much herself, but she listened to my husband after you’d left us, and when he asked her joking whether she’d like Canada, she said quite seriously that she would. ’Twas the great size and wildness of the place took her mind. ’To think of them woods and the wonderful creatures in ’em!’ she said. And when David thought how fine ’twould be to have a bit of ground pretty near as big as all Dartymoor for your own, she nodded and her eyes shone."