"Couldn’t get a bit of coal," said Mrs. Byron, hanging the lamp in its bracket and trying to conceal the fact that his unexpected utterance had jarred her unruly nerves. "’Awken ’adn’t a bit, but the boat is expected in to-night so Jim’ll ’av to go in to-morrow and fetch it." "Where’s ’e to?" persisted Leadville. Sabina held that if no fuel were thrown upon a fire, that fire must die. "’Ow d’yer think I knaw?" "Is ’e to ’Ember?" "Well, where else should ’e be, seein’..." The man’s deep chest lifted and fell. "Seein’," he interrupted fiercely, "as Tom wish for’m to be there, seein’ as ’is wife wish it..." "’Is—’is wife?" stammered Sabina. "Don’t Isolda wish it? You know she do; but my li’l bird don’t wish it. I don’t believe she do." The blood, which had drained out of the woman’s face, returned with a rush. She opened her lips but found herself voiceless and gasping. "Don’t say like that, Leadville," she whispered at last. "Don’t ’ee, don’t ’ee say it—not to me." The man threw back his head and, as if unable in any other way to express his feelings, broke into a laugh. "You!" he said. "You!" Sabina turned the trolly handle, pushing it blindly out of the room. She was running away as a man runs from licking, climbing flames. She could not yield, could not knuckle under, but she could retreat until strong enough to resume the struggle. The tears were running down her face as she turned into the linhay, but they were tears forced from her by pain. Like the child in the story she could have said, "It is my eyes that’s cryin’, not me." For behind the wall of her tired and suffering body was her indomitable spirit. *CHAPTER XIII* Sabina’s mental attitude towards events and persons was often one of surprise and protest. It was now. "What ’av I done that ’e should treat me like this?" she thought. Her right-doing was the outstanding thing in her life and could not be missed. It was like a bonfire on a hill. If the wages of sin were death, the reward of righteousness which she deserved, should be love and faith. Laying claim to this reward, her poor mind, groped in a long bewilderment. For love and faith had been withheld. Leaning for support on the stone shelf, gathering the dark and quiet and coolness of the linhay into her soul, her tears gradually dried up and as gradually her personal feeling, her bitterness and resentment, gave place. She had asserted a claim, had protested as a wife against the outrage of Leadville’s words, had protested as a child against that flourishing of the wicked as a green bay-tree; but the habit of her mind was impersonal and very kind. Dispirited, sad, almost despairing, she yet could not do other than return to it.