LITMIR.BIZ

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boy on his feet, and holding up his trailing nightgown behind him, “do you want to walk to your mother — go then — Ah!”

      The child, a handsome little fellow of some sixteen months, toddled across to his mother, waving his hands as he went, and laughing, while his large hazel eyes glowed with pleasure. His mother caught him, pushed the silken brown hair back from his forehead, and laid his cheek against hers.

      “Ah!” she said, “tha’s got a funny Dad, tha’ has, not like another man, no, my duckie. ‘E’s got no ‘art ter care for nobody, ‘e ‘asna, ma pigeon — no — lives like a stranger to his own flesh an’ blood.”

      The girl with the wounded cheek had found comfort in Leslie. She was seated on his knee, looking at him with solemn blue eyes, her solemnity increased by the quaint round head, whose black hair was cut short.

      “‘S my chalk, yes it is, ‘n our Sam says as it’s ‘issen, an’ ‘e ta’es it and marks it all gone, so I wouldna gie ‘t’ ’im,”— she clutched in her fat little hand a piece of red chalk. “My Dad gen it me, ter mark my dolly’s face red, what’s on’y wood — I’ll show yer.”

      She wriggled down, and holding up her trailing gown with one hand, trotted to a corner piled with a child’s rubbish, and hauled out a hideous carven caricature of a woman, and brought it to Leslie. The face of the object was streaked with red.

      ‘Ere sh’ is, my dolly, what my Dad make me —‘er name’s Lady Mima.”

      “Is it?” said Lettie, “and are these her cheeks? She’s not pretty, is she?”

      “Um — sh’ is. My Dad says sh’ is — like a lady.”

      “And he gave you her rouge, did he?”

      “Rouge!” she nodded.

      “And you wouldn’t let Sam have it?”

      “No — an’ mi movver says, Dun gie ‘t ’im’—‘n ‘e bite me.”

      “What will your father say?”

      “Me Dad?”

      “‘E’d nobbut laugh,” put in the mother, “an’ say as a bite’s bett’r’n a kiss.”

      “Brute!” said Leslie feelingly.

      “No, but ‘e never laid a finger on’ em-nor me neither. But ‘e ‘s not like another man — niver tells yer nowt. He’s more a stranger to me this day than ‘e wor th’ day I first set eyes on ’im.”

      “Where was that?” asked Lettie.

      “When I wor a lass at th’ ‘All — an’ ’im a new man come — fair a gentleman, an’ a, an’ a! Ond even now can read an’ talk like a gentleman — but ‘e tells me nothing — Oh no — what am I in ‘is eyes but a sludge bump? —‘e ‘s above me, ‘e is, an’ above ‘is own childer. God a-mercy, ‘e ‘11 be in in a minute. Come on ’ere!”

      She hustled the children to bed, swept the litter into a corner, and began to lay the table. The cloth was spotless, and she put him a silver spoon in the saucer.

      We had only just got out of the house when he drew near. I saw his massive figure in the doorway, and the big, prolific woman moved subserviently about the room.

      “Hullo, Proserpine — had visitors?”

      “I never axed ’em-they come in ‘earin’ th’ childer cryin’. I never encouraged ’em-”

      We hurried away into the night.

      “Ah, it’s always the woman bears the burden,” said Lettie bitterly.

      “If he’d helped her — wouldn’t she have been a fine woman now — splendid? But she’s dragged to bits. Men are brutes — and marriage just gives scope to them,” said Emily.

      “Oh, you wouldn’t take that as a fair sample of marriage,” replied Leslie. “Think of you and me, Minnehaha.”

      “Ay.”

      “Oh — I meant to tell you — what do you think of Greymede old vicarage for us?”

      “It’s a lovely old place!” exclaimed Lettie, and we passed out of hearing.

      We stumbled over the rough path. The moon was bright, and we stepped apprehensively on the shadows thrown from the trees, for they lay so black and substantial. Occasionally a moonbeam would trace out a suave white branch that the rabbits had gnawed quite bare in the hard winter. We came out of the woods into the full heavens. The northern sky was full of a gush of green light; in front, eclipsed Orion leaned over his bed, and the moon followed.

      “When the northern lights are up,” said Emily, “I feel so strange — half eerie — they do fill you with awe, don’t they?”

      “Yes,” said I, “they make you wonder, and look, and expect something.”

      “What do you expect?” she said softly, and looked up, and saw me smiling, and she looked down again, biting her lips.

      When we came to the parting of the roads, Emily begged them just to step into the mill — just for a moment — and Lettie consented.

      The kitchen window was uncurtained, and the blind, as usual, was not drawn. We peeped in through the cords of budding honeysuckle. George and Alice were sitting at the table playing chess; the mother was mending a coat, and the father, as usual, was reading. Alice was talking quietly, and George was bent on the game. His arms lay on the table.

      We made a noise at the door, and entered. George rose heavily, shook hands, and sat down again.

      “Hullo, Lettie Beardsall, you are a stranger,” said Alice. “Are you so much engaged?”

      “Ay — we don’t see much of her nowadays,” added the father in his jovial way.

      “And isn’t she a toff, in her fine hat and furs and snowdrops. Look at her, George, you’ve never looked to see what a toff she is.”

      He raised his eyes, and looked at her apparel and at her flowers, but not at her face:

      “Ay, she is fine,” he said, and returned to the chess.

      “We have been gathering snowdrops,” said Lettie, fingering the flowers in her bosom.

      “They are pretty — give me some, will you?” said Alice, holding out her hand. Lettie gave her the flowers.

      “Check!” said George deliberately.

      “Get out!” replied his opponent, “I’ve got some snowdrops — don’t they suit me, an innocent little soul like me? Lettie won’t wear them — she’s not meek and mild and innocent like me. Do you want some?”

      “If you like — what for?”

      “To make you pretty, of course, and to show you an innocent little meekling.”

      “You’re in check,” he said.

      “Where can you wear them? — there’s only your shirt. Aw! — there! — she stuck a few flowers in his ruffled black hair —”

      “Look, Lettie, isn’t he sweet?”

      Lettie laughed with a strained little laugh:

      “He’s like Bottom and the ass’s head,” she said.

      “Then I’m Titania — don’t I make a lovely fairy queen, Bully Bottom? — and who’s jealous Oberon?”

      “He reminds me of that man in Hedda Gabler — crowned with vine leaves — oh yes, vine leaves,” said Emily.

      “How’s your mare’s sprain, Mr Tempest?” George asked, taking no notice of the flowers in his hair.

      “Oh — she’ll soon be all right, thanks.”

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