“Never mind,” said I. “All my flesh seems to jump from it. You don’t know how I feel.” “Well—never mind.” “I couldn’t help it, not for my life.” “I wonder,” said I, “if anything could possibly disturb that young bacon-sucker? He didn’t even look round at the smash.” “No,” said she, biting the tip of her finger moodily. Further conversation was interrupted by howls from the rear. Looking round we saw Sam careering after us over the close-bitten turf, howling scorn and derision at us. “Rabbit-tail, rabbit-tail,” he cried, his bare little legs twinkling, and his little shirt fluttering in the cold morning air. Fortunately, at last he trod on a thistle or a thorn, for when we looked round again to see why he was silent, he was capering on one leg, holding his wounded foot in his hands. CHAPTER VII LETTIE PULLS DOWN THE SMALL GOLD GRAPES During the falling of the leaves Lettie was very wilful. She uttered many banalities concerning men, and love, and marriage; she taunted Leslie and thwarted his wishes. At last he stayed away from her. She had been several times down to the mill, but because she fancied they were very familiar, receiving her on to their rough plane like one of themselves, she stayed away. Since the death of our father she had been restless; since inheriting her little fortune she had become proud, scornful, difficult to please. Difficult to please in every circumstance; she, who had always been so rippling in thoughtless life, sat down in the window sill to think, and her strong teeth bit at her handkerchief till it was torn in holes. She would say nothing to me; she read all things that dealt with modern women. One afternoon Lettie walked over to Eberwich. Leslie had not been to see us for a fortnight. It was a grey, dree afternoon. The wind drifted a clammy fog across the hills, and the roads were black and deep with mud. The trees in the wood slouched sulkily. It was a day to be shut out and ignored if possible. I heaped up the fire, and went to draw the curtains and make perfect the room. Then I saw Lettie coming along the path quickly, very erect. When she came in her colour was high. “Tea not laid?” she said briefly. “Rebecca has just brought in the lamp,” said I. Lettie took off her coat and furs, and flung them on the couch. She went to the mirror, lifted her hair, all curled by the fog, and stared haughtily at herself. Then she swung round, looked at the bare table, and rang the bell. It was so rare a thing for us to ring the bell from the dining-room, that Rebecca went first to the outer door. Then she came in the room saying: “Did you ring?” “I thought tea would have been ready,” said Lettie coldly. Rebecca looked at me, and at her, and replied: “It is but half-past four. I can bring it in.” Mother came down hearing the clink of the tea-cups. “Well,” she said to Lettie, who was unlacing her boots, “and did you find it a pleasant walk?” “Except for the mud,” was the reply.