His mind examined the statement with that ever-ready fear of the lover who is uncertain of his standing. "What you want to go for?" "Shopping!" said she and, with a smile that was faintly malicious, enumerated the items, groceries, liniment for her aunt, pitchers, cloam pans. "Shopping?" But what he saw was that five-mile drive over Big Hill into Stowe. He saw her beside Jim, driving away from Wastralls, from him. "I’ll drive ’ee in!" Gray’s heart sank and she remained silent. "Would ’ee like me to?" If she said ’No,’ he would be all the more eager. "Once I’m in Stowe I shall be that busy you wouldn’t see anything of me." He laughed. "I’d take care of that. All right then, ’tis I as’ll drive ’ee into Stowe and not the lad. I’ll not trust Rosevear to drive ’ee, I’ll do it myself." He looked back at her from the door, his dark face alight. "My God, if I caught ’ee with one of they, I’d—I’d break his neck." The door banged to behind him, and Gray putting down the printer laid her head on her arms. If Aunt Sabina should not be able to prevent him! But Aunt Sabina was a tower of strength. *CHAPTER VIII* In order that Gray might start for the market in good time, Mrs. Byron had swung herself out of bed that morning as soon as she had swallowed her simple breakfast of tea and buttered split. But though she had brush, comb, garments, in fact all toilet necessaries at hand, and could therefore dress expeditiously, she found when she reached the kitchen that day was breaking. A red sun, having topped the south-easterly slopes of Brown Willy and Rowtor, was smiling in at the many-paned window and winning an answering brightness from surfaces of steel, of yellow glaze and of glass. Mrs. Byron’s eye as she pushed the trolly into the room took in the homely details. To the right of the range yawned a cloam oven and, before long, Jim Rosevear would be bringing faggots of tamarisk wood with which to fill it. Before the fire in a deep pan the dough was ’plumping’ under a linen cloth, and nothing makes a house so homely as dough on a low chair ’plumping’ in kitchen warmth and stillness. As she gathered the breakfast crocks together, preparatory to cleansing them, she smiled to herself well-pleased. Her plans were working smoothly and although the past year had been one of change and discomfort, she could believe that the disturbance, like yeast in flour, would bring good results. Mrs. Byron’s movements were still quick and deft. She set the remains of the fry aside, poured hot water into the wooden tub for washing up and stood the knives, blade down, in a pot. The trolly, being of cane and shivered wood, ran lightly over the blue flags; but as she turned from putting the refilled kettle on the fire she heard voices in the linhay, the deep bass murmur that was her husband’s and a clearer sound, the voice of some one young and troubled, of some one angered, but also afraid.