"I been in terrible fear," he told her simply, "and I’m ’avin’ holiday to-day. If you don’t mind I’ll walk down to Wastralls with you. You don’t know ’ow glad I be to see ye ’ome again and lookin’ so well too." Sabina’s heart beat irregularly for a moment. If only Leadville would talk to her like this! She comforted herself with the thought that his being undemonstrative did not mean he was unfeeling. Words did not come easily to him, but still waters run deep. The cottagers about the smithy threw more flowers into the cart. "Might be May Day," as Sabina said, with her happy smile. At Hember, Tom Rosevear was waiting with four of his daughters. "Mother’s down to Wastralls wi’ Gray," he said and the blooming girls, the so-called nieces, raised their young voices in affectionate greeting. ’Aunt S’bina’ had been the fairy godmother of the family, always willing to abet them in any piece of innocent fun. They were sincerely glad to have her back. The drive had been long for one just out of hospital, but the kindliness of friends and neighbours had proved a stimulant. When the wagon turned into the yard of Wastralls, however, Sabina was almost too tired to note the changes that had been made. The absence of the honeysuckle caused the porch to look bare, the old sheepdog was no longer lying in the sun; but Leadville had come back from the fishing and was ready to lift her down. At sight of him the tired face brightened. "I’m glad to come ’ome again," she said. The man had been standing idly by the door. Having drawn nothing out of the sea he had come back in a mood which was not uninfluenced by his lack of success. Everything had gone wrong, his hopes were dashed, his plans had miscarried and he searched the landscape in vain for any hope of change. Sabina was well again, she had already asserted her will with regard to the farm and before him lay a future as dreary as the past. He lifted his eyes as the beflowered cortège rolled into the yard. He had expected a sort of chair and the trolly with its basket-work cone was an unpleasant surprise; while the sight of his wife, in brightly coloured gown and pink sunbonnet, swelling out of it like a monstrous fruit, completed his dismay. She was a figure of fun, a queer oddity, repellent as something out of nature. The bravery that faced the sunshine as simply as in the days of its strength did not appeal to him, he was only conscious of the deformity. His heart contracted, emptied itself of good-will, then slowly filled again—but not with kindliness. The business of unloading occupied the men for some minutes and Mrs. Rosevear, taking the parcels, handed them to her daughter. "What a lovely lot o’ flowers. I should think every garden for miles round will be bare." "Take care o’ that box," cried Sabina, suddenly, as they lifted out the case that was suggestive of a coffin. "I value that." "Where be ’ee gwine put it, auntie?" "In the cupboard in the big parlour."