“I don’t know,” said Leslie. “When it comes to killing it goes against the stomach.” “If you can run,” said George, “you should be able to run to death. When your blood’s up, you don’t hang half way.” “I think a man is horrible,” said Lettie, “who can tear the head off a little mite of a thing like a rabbit, after running it in torture over a field.” “When he is nothing but a barbarian to begin with——” said Emily. “If you began to run yourself—you’d be the same,” said George. “Why, women are cruel enough,” said Leslie, with a glance at Lettie. “Yes,” he continued, “they’re cruel enough in their way”—another look, and a comical little smile. “Well,” said George, “what’s the good finicking! If you feel like doing a thing—you’d better do it.” “Unless you haven’t courage,” said Emily, bitingly. He looked up at her with dark eyes, suddenly full of anger. “But,” said Lettie—she could not hold herself from asking, “Don’t you think it’s brutal, now—that you _do_ think—isn’t it degrading and mean to run the poor little things down?” “Perhaps it is,” he replied, “but it wasn’t an hour ago.” “You have no feeling,” she said bitterly. He laughed deprecatingly, but said nothing. We finished tea in silence, Lettie reading, Emily moving about the house. George got up and went out at the end. A moment or two after we heard him across the yard with the milk-buckets, singing “The Ash Grove.” “He doesn’t care a scrap for anything,” said Emily with accumulated bitterness. Lettie looked out of the window across the yard, thinking. She looked very glum. After a while we went out also, before the light faded altogether from the pond. Emily took us into the lower garden to get some ripe plums. The old garden was very low. The soil was black. The cornbind and goosegrass were clutching at the ancient gooseberry bushes, which sprawled by the paths. The garden was not very productive, save of weeds, and perhaps, tremendous lank artichokes or swollen marrows. But at the bottom, where the end of the farm buildings rose high and grey, there was a plum-tree which had been crucified to the wall, and which had broken away and leaned forward from bondage. Now under the boughs were hidden great mist-bloomed, crimson treasures, splendid globes. I shook the old, ragged trunk, green, with even the fresh gum dulled over, and the treasures fell heavily, thudding down among the immense rhubarb leaves below. The girls laughed, and we divided the spoil, and turned back to the yard. We went down to the edge of the garden, which skirted the bottom pond, a pool chained in a heavy growth of weeds. It was moving with rats, the father had said. The rushes were thick below us; opposite, the great bank fronted us, with orchard trees climbing it like a hillside. The lower pond received the overflow from the upper by a tunnel from the deep black sluice.