They entered, out of curiosity. The kitchen was indeed different. It was clean and sparkling, warm with bright red chintzes on the sofa and on every chair cushion. Unfortunately the effect was spoiled by green and yellow antimaccassars, and by a profusion of paper and woollen flowers. There were three cases of woollen flowers, and on the wall, four fans stitched over with ruffled green and yellow paper, adorned with yellow paper roses, carnations, arum lilies, and poppies; there were also wall pockets full of paper flowers; while the wood outside was loaded with blossom. “Yes,” said Lettie, “there is a difference.” The woman swelled, and looked round. The black-bearded man peeped from behind the Christian Herald—those long blaring trumpets!—and shrank again. The woman darted at his pipe, which he had put on a piece of newspaper on the hob, and blew some imaginary ash from it. Then she caught sight of something—perhaps some dust—on the fireplace. “There!” she cried, “I knew it; I couldn’t leave him one second! I haven’t work enough burning wood, but he must be poke——poke——” “I only pushed a piece in between the bars,” complained the mouse-voice from behind the paper. “Pushed a piece in!” she re-echoed, with awful scorn, seizing the poker and thrusting it over his paper. “What do you call that, sitting there telling your stories before folks——” They crept out and hurried away. Glancing round, Lettie saw the woman mopping the doorstep after them, and she laughed. He pulled his watch out of his breeches’ pocket; it was half-past three. “What are you looking at the time for?” she asked. “Meg’s coming to tea,” he replied. She said no more, and they walked slowly on. When they came on to the shoulder of the hill, and looked down on to the mill, and the mill-pond, she said: “I will not come down with you—I will go home.” “Not come down to tea!” he exclaimed, full of reproach and amazement. “Why, what will they say?” “No, I won’t come down—let me say farewell—‘jamque Vale! Do you remember how Eurydice sank back into Hell?” “But”—he stammered, “you must come down to tea—how can I tell them? Why won’t you come?” She answered him in Latin, with two lines from Virgil. As she watched him, she pitied his helplessness, and gave him a last cut as she said, very softly and tenderly: “It wouldn’t be fair to Meg.” He stood looking at her; his face was coloured only by the grey-brown tan; his eyes, the dark, self-mistrustful eyes of the family, were darker than ever, dilated with misery of helplessness; and she was infinitely pitiful. She wanted to cry in her yearning. “Shall we go into the wood for a few minutes?” she said in a low, tremulous voice, as they turned aside.