"As for us, can’t say it’s been all to the good," declared the farmer. "Never knowed a fairer or hotter summer, but in August the maggots got in the sheep’s backs something cruel. Bart here was out after ’em all his time--wasn’t you, Bart?" Bart had a habit of patting his chin and nodding when he spoke. He did so now. "Yes, I was," said Bart. "A terrible brave show of maggots, sure enough." Mrs. Stanbury appeared, and it might be seen that while her son resembled his father, it was from the mother that Margaret took her dark skin, dark hair, dark eyes and wistful cast of countenance. She was a neat, small woman, and to-day, clad in her plum-coloured Sunday gown with a silver watch-chain and a touch of colour in her black cap, had no little air of distinction about her. Her face was long and rather sad, but it had been beautiful before the mouth fell somewhat. Constance Stanbury was eight years older than her husband and of a credulous nature, at once vaguely poetical and definitely pessimistic. She depreciated everything that belonged to herself; even when her children were praised to her face, she would deprecate enthusiasm with silence or a shrug. She believed in mysteries, in voices that called by night, in dreams, in premonitions, in the evil omen and the evil eye. Her brother had destroyed himself, and she was not the first of her race who had suffered from a congenital melancholia. "I hope your scalded hand be doing nicely, ma’am," said David, with the politeness of a lover to the mother of his lass. "Yes, thank you. ’Twas my own silly fault, trying to do two things at once. ’Tis of no consequence." "I’ll pour out the tea," said Margaret. "Then you needn’t take your hand out of the sling, mother." Mrs. Stanbury’s profound and pathetic distrust and doubt that she could possess or achieve any good thing, extended from the greatest to the least interest in life. Now they ate and drank, and David ventured to praise a fine cake of which he asked for a second slice. "Glad you like it, I’m sure," she said, "but ’tisn’t much of a cake. Too stoggy and I forgot the lemon." "Never want to taste a better," declared David, stoutly. "Our cakes to Ditsworthy ban’t a patch on it." Mrs. Stanbury smiled faintly. "Did your mother catch any good from the organy tea?" she asked. "Yes," answered David. "A power of good it did her, and I was specially to say she was greatly obliged for it; and if by lucky chance you’d saved up a few bunches more organies, she’d like ’em." "Certainly, an’ t’other herb to go along with it. I dried good store at the season of the year. Some people say the moon don’t count in the matter; but there’s a right and wrong in such things, and the moon did ought to be at the full without a doubt. Who be we to say that the wit of our grandfathers was of no account?"