The young mother sat down on the bank, and turning the child face down, began to stroke her back with strong caressing rhythmical sweep. Ernie, watching, was amazed at the skill and easy masterfulness of her motions. "Who learned you that?" he asked. "Seems to coom like," she answered. "I doos it most days in general." "She likes that," said Ernie wisely, watching the squirming rogue. "Doosn't do her no harm anyways," answered the mother. She put the little naked thing to sprawl and crawl and scramble on the grass beside her. "Sun and wind and water," she said. "Give a child them three; and she wun't need for no'hun else--only food. That's what Mr. Trupp says. And I reck'n he says right." Standing up, the water still covering her feet, she dropped her skirt. He gave her his hand to help her on to the bank. "The sun's burnt you," he remarked. "Aye," she answered. "I been in the hay these three weeks past. We've carried all now, only Pook's Pasture." Her humming voice soothed and satisfied him as of old. He listened to it as to a familiar song heard again after many years. He did not catch the words of the song, nor care to. It was the air and its associations that held his heart. Then he woke from his dream to find the woman at his side saying: "I shall wait over harvest. I promised Mr. Gander that. See I work good as a man. Better'n some, hap," with a gleam of the old Ruth and a little backward toss of the head. "Then I shall goo." Ernie roused swiftly. "Where'll you goo then?" "Back to service." Ernie was staggered. "And what about her?" nodding at the baby gurgling and squirming in the grass. Ruth answered nothing, but her face stiffened. He felt in her the fierce and formidable power he had felt on the previous evening beside the stream. Here was not the Ruth he had known. Nature had roused in the mother forces, beautiful but terrible, of which the maid had not been conscious. She stood with high head, like a roused stag, looking across the water-meadows to the foothills. Then her chest began to heave. "There's not enough," she said deeply. "I been home more'n a twal month now. Dad's got the pension, and there's what the Squire allows him and the cottage; and I doos the milkin at the Barton and earns well at whiles in the hay and harvest. But 'taren't enough. We can't make out--not the four of us and a growin child. I must just goo back to service. I made the mistake, and I must pay--not them." Ernie came closer. "No, you won't," he said masterfully. "You'll marry me." She shook her head, swallowing her tears. Then she laid her hand upon his arm. "Thank-you, Ernie," she said. "I just can't do that." "Why not then?" fiercely. "Ern," she panted, "if I married any I'd marry you. But I'll marry no'hun now." She sat down under the willow and began to dress her babe. Ern stood above her, dogged and determined. "Say! why can't you marry me then?" he persisted.