"Well, I don’t know I’m sure." Mrs. Tom had been expecting this, she had even schemed for it. She had five daughters, pretty maidens all of them, and Gray was the eldest. What more suitable than that she should fill a daughter’s place at Wastralls? Nevertheless it would not be wise to jump at the offer. "She’s young to go from ’ome." "Wastralls is only next door and she’ll be all right with me." "An’ ’as you’ve none of yer own," agreed Mrs. Tom, "Gray’s the nearest." Whatever Sabina’s intentions, however, she would not promise to make the girl her heir. "’Twill be for the maid’s good," she said vaguely. "I’ll see what Tom got to say about it." Gray was eighteen and, with Richbell coming on, could well be spared. No doubt Mrs. Constantine Rosevear would think Wastralls ought eventually to go to one of her sons; but, in this world, a hen scratched up what she could for her own chicks. "Gray think more ’bout ’ome than Richbell," Sabina said thoughtfully. "She’s not after the chaps so much." The mother’s pride was touched. "Whenever she go up round the parish, there’s always three or four pairs of eyes lookin’ at Gray. She can always ’av a chap if she like, but she don’t trouble whether she do or no." "Is there any special young man, do ’ee think?" "Well now, I don’t care to say..." Sabina’s curiosity was aroused. "Now Isolda, there’s somethin’ gone on since I come in ’ere. Who is it?" Mrs. Rosevear had spent some of the happiest hours of her life, discussing her children with this trusty friend. "No stranger," she said smilingly. "Who then?" "One of your ’inds." The other opened her eyes. "My dear life, didn’t she ought to be lookin’ for some one better off?" "She don’t think anything of money." "They don’t at that age, we got to do that for’m. Who is it then?" "Why, Jim Rosevear, the yard-man." Mrs. Byron knitted her brows in an endeavour to recall the young man’s face. "Jim Rosevear? He come just before my accident. I can’t think who ’ee is." "Why, iss you do. You know, Jack Rosevear of Treketh’s son." "Jack Rosevear—th’ old chap who’s so contrary?" "That’s of’m. When he get in a temper, you know, ’ee take off ’is ’at, swing’n around, and fling’n down and stamp on it." "Oh iss, I know, I remember." She meditated. "That ’edn’t as bad after all." "No, ’tedn’t bad, though ’ee’ve quarrelled with’s father. But Mrs. Andrews over to Gentle Jane is ’is auntie and, as she’s nobody of ’er own and ’er man’s dead, there’s a farm there and Jim’s nothing to do but go in and ’ang up ’is ’at." "Then what’s ah doin’ at Wastralls?" Isolda smiled, that secret smile of the mother. "Well, you needn’t ask me that. Ed’n Wastralls next door to Hember?" "So that’s it, is it?" "There was heaps o’ maidens after ’im, for ’e’s a pretty boy and, at Christmas Tree last New Year, ’e ad some mistletoe in’s cap and they all astin’ for’t; but Gray was the one ’e gived it to. And that’s ’ow ’e come to you as yard-man."