“They dun what they can. But it’s a hard job, it is, ter keep ’em all goin’. Wi’ weshin, an’ th’ parish pay, an’ five shillin’ from th’ squire—it’s ’ard. It was different when my husband was alive. It ought ter ’a been me as should ’a died—I don’t seem as if I can manage ’em—they get beyond me. I wish I was dead this minnit, an’ ’im ’ere. I can’t understand it: ’im as wor so capable, to be took, an’ me left. ’E wor a man in a thousand, ’e wor—full o’ management like a gentleman. I wisht it was me as ’ad a been took. ’An ’e’s restless, ’cos ’e knows I find it ’ard. I stood at th’ door last night, when they was all asleep, looking out over th’ pit pond—an’ I saw a light, an’ I knowed it was ’im—cos it wor our weddin’ day yesterday—by the day an’ th’ date. An’ I said to ’im ‘Frank, is it thee, Frank? I’m all right, I’m gettin’ on all right,’—an’ then ’e went; seemed to go ower the whimsey an’ back towards th’ wood. I know it wor ’im, an’ ’e couldna rest, thinkin’ I couldna manage——” After a while we left, promising to go again, and to see after the safety of Sam. It was quite dark, and the lamps were lighted in the houses. We could hear the throb of the fan-house engines, and the soft whirr of the fan. “Isn’t it cruel?” said Emily plaintively. “Wasn’t the man a wretch to marry the woman like that,” added Lettie with decision. “Speak of Lady Chrystabel,” said I, and then there was silence. “I suppose he did not know what he was doing, any more than the rest of us.” “I thought you were going to your aunt’s—to the Ram Inn,” said Lettie to George when they came to the cross-roads. “Not now—it’s too late,” he answered quietly. “You will come round our way, won’t you?” “Yes,” she said. We were eating bread and milk at the farm, and the father was talking with vague sadness and reminiscence, lingering over the thought of their departure from the old house. He was a pure romanticist, forever seeking the colour of the past in the present’s monotony. He seemed settling down to an easy contented middle-age, when the unrest on the farm and development of his children quickened him with fresh activity. He read books on the land question, and modern novels. In the end he became an advanced radical, almost a socialist. Occasionally his letters appeared in the newspapers. He had taken a new hold on life. Over supper he became enthusiastic about Canada, and to watch him, his ruddy face lighted up, his burly form straight and nerved with excitement, was to admire him; to hear him, his words of thoughtful common-sense all warm with a young man’s hopes, was to love him. At forty-six he was more spontaneous and enthusiastic than George, and far more happy and hopeful. Emily would not agree to go away with them—what should she do in Canada, she said—and she did not want the little ones “to be drudges on a farm—in the end to be nothing but cattle.”