A man and a woman stood in a country lane as the sun was setting. It was where the lane broke out into the open ground of the common, and above them on the hill a windmill was swinging gaunt, lazy arms against the sky. On one side it looked down and across the marsh to the incoming tide, and on the other it commanded miles of pasture-land and hop-fields, and saw the Sussex Downs roll away beyond: behind it, on a sky of opaque blue, the moon had just risen red, and looked at the setting sun opposite. The man stood ruefully, gazing up at the mill, his back half turned to the woman, who was talking fast and loud.

They were hop-pickers; not of those out of city slums, but of the tidier and better class who come from distant villages for the sake of the change and airing; there had been a gang of them, and they were all to be sent home on the morrow.

“But o’ course it’s enough for me to say I want a thing for you to gainsay me,” the woman was saying. She was a tall, dark, powerful young person, and the man, with his slouching gait and thin, sallow face, was evidently immeasurably her inferior in physical strength, and had a meek, deprecating manner that made her words seem somewhat of a mockery.

“I’m sure I don’t want for to gainsay ye, Martha,” he replied humbly. “But I don’t see why ye can’t go up to the mill and see Mrs. Moss without me coming too. Ole friends is ole friends, o’ course, and ’tis nat’ral comin’ back to th’ ole place—we should want to see ’em. But there’s reasons for things, and reasons agin ’em, so to speak. You and Milly Harkitt was none such friends when ye lived ’ere afore ye was wed—if the sayin’s true.”

Martha laughed harshly.

“Sayin’s ain’t never true,” she said bluntly. “Else there’s a sayin’ as you and she was friends if we wasn’t! Reasons for and reasons agin, indeed! Milly’s wed since I see ’er, and I want to ’ave a look and see if it’s altered ’er.”

The man blushed and smiled, but he neither retorted nor denied the charge.

“She were a pritty gentle crittur,” was all he said, thoughtfully looking beyond his wife. “I ’ope she bain’t altered.”

The woman looked at him sharply.

“Well, if ye want so much to know, ye’d best come and see,” she said tartly.

He brought his slow gaze back to her.

“Is that all ye be goin’ up there for?” said he irrelevantly, and one might have said, suspiciously.

“Never you mind what I’m goin’ for,” retorted she, stepping out up the hill. “I be goin’ to please myself, and that’s enough. I’ll be ’ome to supper, and mind you don’t go fallin’ in with no pals as you did last night, and come ’ome late. I don’t know but what you ’adn’t best step up and fetch me.”

“All right,” said the man as he turned away down the lane. “What time?”

“Eight o’clock,” she called back promptly. “And you know I don’t relish waiting.”

“I won’t keep ye waitin’,” said he quietly. “I’ll stop outside for ye at eight o’clock.”

“What, afraid to have a look at the girl!” laughed she again. And she went on smartly up the hill. But when she got to the top she did not at once turn into the garden that surrounded the house, but stood awhile in the field, leaning her arms on the gate and staring out to the sunset.

She was not of the dreamy sort, but to-night she was thinking: thinking a little bit of the man who had just left her—trying to remember just how much she had heard about him and Milly, but thinking more still of another young man who had many times stood at her side in yonder lane or at this very gate whence she now watched the afterglow gild the purple cloud-banks out west.

She had thought that she had loved the latter, and there could be no doubt that he was younger and richer and comelier than the man whom she had married, and he had bent tender eyes on her such as a girl loves. But there had come a little rift between them, and when she had been obliged to leave the village and go to keep house for an uncle some distance off, the rift had widened, and then she had heard that he had married another. That other was the very girl she had come to see to-night, and she was just wondering whether she would like to meet the man or no.

But as she was secretly determining on the exact measure of scorn she would throw into her manner, and wondering if her beauty was in any way dimmed since he had seen her, fate decided for her, for the door of the mill-house opened, and she heard his voice on the threshold.

“Come, leave that whimperin’, Milly, do,” said the voice sharply, but not unkindly. “I never see sich a gal! Ye be allers low-spirited now-a-days. Why can’t ye be cheerful a-nussin’ o’ the baby, and let a man go ’bout ’is business?”

“Oh, Dan, I don’t want ye to go to the ‘Public’ to-night,” said the woman within, and there was no doubt that the tone did lay itself open to the accusation of a whimper. “Ye come ’ome so late last night, and I bain’t strong yet, ye know. I’ve been alone all day—I don’t want ye to go out agin.”

“Late! Lor’ bless me, it weren’t gone ten o’clock!” retorted the man. “You’d want a ’usbin’ allers ’oppin’ around ye! I bain’t that sort! When be ye goin’ to pluck up and show a feller a jolly face, and get about yer work agin—eh?”

“Ye’re niver goin’ to throw it up agin me as I bain’t strong, and baby not six weeks old,” began the woman, the whimper bidding ominously fair to swell to greater volume.

Then Martha heard a rough, quick, jovial expostulation, and then a big, loud kiss; the whimpering grew softer, and a moment after the door slammed to, and she saw a man come striding towards her down the garden-walk in the dusk. At first she had a silly desire to run, but a moment after she laughed at the very thought, and felt that she really didn’t care. So she walked straight up to the garden-gate, and put her hand on the latch at the very same instant as the man reached it.

“What be your business, ma’am, please?” he began, then quickly changing his tone added: “Why I’m blowed if it ain’t Martha Bond!”

The young woman laughed.

“Oh, no, ’tain’t!” said she. “It’s Martha Hewson. I be married, same as you.”

“Well, I’m pleased to ’ear it, I’m sure,” said the man, without being in the least ruffled, “and no ill-will bore, I can see, which there bain’t no cause, o’ course.”

“O’ course not,” agreed she. “Ill-will, indeed! I should like to know what for?”

“Least said, soonest mended, I s’pose,” assented the man with a jolly laugh. “And where might you be livin’ now-a-days?”

“Up to Wycombe,” answered she. “Me and my ’usbin’ come over ’ere to do a bit o’ hop-pickin’. ’E bain’t over-strong, and I thought it ’ud do ’im good. We be off to-morrer, and I thought I’d just step up and see yer wife.”

“She’ll take it very kindly, I’m sure,” said the man doubtfully, but rather glad to be rid of this visitor at any cost. “She bain’t very well—she bain’t never strong same as other women,” he added. “You might put a bit o’ spunk into ’er.”

And he led the way up the garden-walk.

Martha was half offended. She was not sure she had come to put spunk into her old sweetheart’s wife—and surely Dan Moss was very dull to what he used to be! She felt still more sorry she had come when she saw the awkward shyness of the little woman whom they disturbed nursing her babe at the fireside.

“’Ere be Mrs. Hewson, Martha Bond as was, come to see you,” said the husband, and added hurriedly to the visitor: “There, Milly ’ll get ye a cup o’ tea, ma’am, and you two ’ll ’ave a good bit of a gossip whiles I steps down to the village. She was just a-sayin’ she were a bit lonesome. Good-night to ye, and pleased to see ye look so ’earty.” And he bustled out as quickly as he had bustled in.

“You must excuse ’im,” said the young mother, blushing for her man, while she stilled the cries of the injured babe interrupted at his meal. “Dan’s allers in a ’urry to be off.”

“May be ’e ’ave got business,” said Martha, civilly.

“Oh, no, ’e ain’t,” said the wife. “But Dan bain’t niver been a stay-at-’ome man. ’Is mother were a rough customer they do say, and she didn’t use ’im to it.”

“Well, and I’ve ’eard tell she were too much sot on ’im altogether,” laughed Martha. “Wouldn’t let ’im go out for ’alf a’ ’our’s chat but what she’d call ’is dead father to mind when ’e come ’ome, and snivel over ’im as if ’e was a child. A man couldn’t be expected to stan’ that.”

“P’r’aps not,” assented the other, considering. “All the same it bain’t much use ’avin’ a man if ’e bain’t niver at ’ome. Maybe your ’usbin’ don’t care for company.”

“I’d catch im carin’ for any company but mine when I wanted his’n,” declared Mrs. Hewson defiantly. “But I bain’t one to care for a man allers draggin’ about—they be more in the way than hanythink. I can’t niver find two words to say to Bill when once I’ve giv’ ’im ’is cup o’ tea or whativer it might be. It be more nor I can make out ’ow women can bide men plaguin’ round ’em from mornin’ till night. Bill be too stay-at-’ome by ’alf—though, to be sure, I do let ’im ’ave it if ’e come ’ome late o’ nights, that be certain,” she added, laughing.

The other woman stared at her a minute, speechless and wondering; then she sighed.

“Well, I niver!” ejaculated she. “Pore feller!” and the thought flew through her mind that she would not have treated him so.

“Pore feller indeed!” cried Mrs. Hewson indignantly. “Why, bain’t ’e dead sot on me, and wouldn’t ’e rayther ’ave my tongue any day than another gal’s palavers? What else should ’e be so stay-at-’ome for, I’d like to know? Pore feller! What next?”

She settled her hat on her head with a quick, irritated movement, but the next minute she laughed again.

“But belike you fancy a man allers a-dancin’ round you,” laughed she. “Some gals do. I can swop a buss now and then as well as most, but I like to get it over o’ proper times.”

Milly blushed, and shifted the baby to the other arm.

“I thought as iverybody liked their man to get time to admire ’em a bit,” said she shyly.

“Is that what ye be after?” laughed Martha. “Lord, I wouldn’t give much for Bill’s taste. ’E don’t know black from blue.”

“’E ’ave ’ad the taste ye wanted ’im to ’ave, I s’pose,” retorted the little woman—“’e ’ave ’ad the taste to fancy you!”

Her delicate face flushed, and there was just a tinge of spite in her tone, for could she not remember the day when Mr. Hewson’s taste had not been for dark, powerful girls?

“Oh, yes, ’e ’ave ’ad that,” assented the other in an off-hand way. "He knowed I were the only one as could ha’ made hanythink of ’im. If ’e ’ad ha’ married a pore gumptionless soul like some"—and Martha looked out of the corner of the eye at her hostess—“’e wouldn’t ha’ been nowhere! ’E needs a good strong, smart gal, ’e do, pore soul! Ye wouldn’t b’lieve the time I be seein’ to ’imto ’im—as good as gold, but a pore shiftless crittur! If it weren’t for me, we wouldn’t ’ave bite nor sup to put in our mouths. I be forced to put spunk into ’im same time as I work for the lot.”

“I wouldn’t ha’ believed it,” said Milly Moss, rocking the child.

“Ah, you may then,” declared Martha emphatically. “It be a good job I ain’t got no little ’un yet, for I’d ’ave two to see to then. You be to be envied, you be, with a great, fine, strappin’ feller for a ’usbin’ what knows ’is own mind, and....”

And Martha stopped abruptly, for it had crossed her memory that she had once upbraided Dan Moss in her heart for not knowing his own mind, and a quick dart of vexation ran through her because, in the heat of the hour, she had both praised the man who had not followed up his attentions to her, and run down the man who had.

She bit her lip and thought how she could repair her error, but her turn for speech was gone.

“You do surprise me,” said the envied woman, opening a pair of pale blue eyes very wide. “And I was jist a-thinkin’ what a lucky body you was to ’ave a man as stayed at ’ome and looked arter ye. For ye can’t think ’ow lonesome I am o’ times! Dan ’e be such a favourite-like i’ the village. Somebody’s allers askin’ ’im to go along wi’ ’em drinkin’ or spreein’ one way or another. O’ course I know ’e be rare and clever. ’E wouldn’t make the mill pay as it do if ’e wasn’t. And I don’t grumble so long as it’s work as takes im out—but I do think it’s a shame not never to get a look-in at your own man till it’s time to go to sleep-like.”

Mrs. Moss took out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes furtively, but the baby waking at this interruption, she was forced to give all her mind to hushing it.

Mrs. Hewson sat pondering.

She remembered that she had once thought that life with Dan Moss would be rather a jolly affair, but if his jollity was always kept for out-of-doors, it wasn’t all beer and skittles after all.

“Ye treat ’im too meek-like,” said she after a minute. “I wouldn’t mind so much.”

“’Ow can ye ’elp mindin’ when ye’ve married a man?” retorted the other.

“Well, I’d be cheerfuller—I’d pay ’im back a bit in ’is own coin, I be blowed if I wouldn’t,” laughed Martha.

Milly shook her head.

“Dan ain’t one to stand no nonsense,” said she. “I tried it on a bit when we was fust wed, and blessed if ’e didn’t up and off it for a week! Didn’t say nothink, mind you, but jist up and off it. Said it were business, but o’ course that wasn’t what I wanted!”

“Lor’ bless me!” ejaculated the other. “Well, I be pleased my Bill don’t give me no tantrums. We ain’t ’ad a word ever since we was wed.”

“Oh, well, who said we had words? Everybody ’as their faults. We don’t ’ave no words,” retorted the miller’s wife, tossing her head a bit proudly. And she got up and began busying herself over the tea.

She too was a little sorry she had let herself be betrayed into these confidences.

Meanwhile outside, the moon had climbed the first steeps of the horizon, and had put out the last fires of the sunset; the merest memory of gold was left floating on the western clouds and yellowing the streak of clear sky above the solemn, purple downs; but in the blue overhead the moon had sway, and hung silver on the gently swaying plumes of the pines upon the hills hard by.

Bill Hewson was climbing the hill in obedience to the promise given to his wife an hour before.

But he was not alone; he had met Moss on the village green down yonder by the “Public,” and Moss, in his genial way, had accosted him to wish him joy of his marriage, and so it had come to pass that the two—never more than the merest acquaintances when both lived in the village—had fallen into intimate converse.

Hewson was panting a bit as he kept pace up the road beside his great, long-limbed companion, for the air was coming briskly from the west, and the first frosts were falling at night, and he was asthmatic.

“Ye didn’t ought to be out o’ nights now it’s turned so sharp,” said his companion kindly.

“A man can’t afford to think o’ such things,” said Hewson.

“Well, leastways when there bain’t no need,” allowed the miller. “And ye didn’t so much as put a drop inside ye at the bar to warm ye up for the job.”

“I scarce ever touches sperrits,” said Hewson quietly. “Martha, she don’t think it’s right.”

The miller stopped short in the road and stared at his comrade; but they were in a wood now, and he couldn’t see his face.

“Martha, be——” he began. But he dropped a brown-paper parcel that he was carrying and he turned the phrase into: “Drat the thing——” as he stooped to pick it up.

“Yes, Martha don’t think it’s right, nor she don’t think it’s ’olesome neither,” repeated the feebler man slowly,

Moss laughed long and loudly.

“Well, I be blessed if I’d go blowin’ up this ’ill as you be a-doin’ then,” said he at last. “No, not to fetch any woman under the sun, if she wouldn’t allow me a swaller first to put the ’eart into my stomach, so to speak! Ye be too easy, mate. Bain’t she well and ’earty and fit to look arter ’erself?”

“Oh, she be well and ’earty enough,” allowed the husband. “I don’t know as I iver see’d a ’eartier gal. But ... well, ye see, Martha don’t think small beer of ’erself, and she be a fine woman, ye’ll allow.”

“Oh, she be a fine woman and no mistake,” allowed the miller, smiling to himself.

“I often wonders what it was made ’er take to the likes o’ me,” went on the other, “for I bain’t no catch. And I allers feels I ought to make it up to ’er, so to speak. But I don’t deny it do come a bit ’ard o’ times.”

“A bit of a Tartar, eh?” asked Moss confidentially.

“I won’t go so far as to say that,” replied the henpecked one as who should refuse to admit a thing that he feared might be true. “She be a just woman, she be, but she bain’t just what ye might call a gentle un’. I’ve sometimes thought as she be too clever.”

“Ah. I don’t know as I care for ’em so clever as all that,” said the miller. “I shouldn’t like a wife cleverer nor myself, now. But there be them as gives up, like, every minute, and that bain’t all fun neither. Why, Lor’ bless me, there be some women want ye to be at their elber to ’elp ’em tell whether the milk be sour or no. It be real contrairy o’ times. Ye be forced to go out-doors to get a minute’s peace.”

“What, talk at ye twenty to the dozen?” asked Hewson feelingly.

“Not so much talk as whine at ye! Make ye believe ye’re a downright brute afore they’ve done. Till ye be forced to go and get a glass o’ beer into ye to see things straight agin.”

“Talkin’ be wuss,” said Hewson simply.

“Ah, ye ’aven’t tried whinin’,” retorted Moss. “You wait till you ’ave!”

“I bain’t likely to,” answered the other in a matter-of-fact way. “Martha she bain’t given that way. And I be glad of it, now I hear what you say. I did think—but, there, that’s neither here nor there. I don’t mind sayin’ I’ve altered my mind since I’ve ’eard what you say. I likes ’em gentle, but I likes ’em spry.”

The miller shook his head doubtfully.

“I don’t believe ye can ’ave it both ways,” he said, with a great air of wisdom. “They ’as their feelin’s when they’s soft-like, and feelin’s is a darned noosance. Ye don’t get no dinner when feelin’s is on the go.”

“I wouldn’t stomach that,” declared Hewson, shaking his head. “The smart ones they do look arter ye well, if they don’t let ye call yer soul yer own.”

“Blowed if I’d put up wi’ not bein’ master under my own roof, though,” declared the miller emphatically. “I’d rather find the kitchen fire out, by a long way, than ’ave my words snapped up when I be settin’ aside it. I can’t abide temper in a woman nor more nor in a ’oss!”

“All the same a bit o’ warm fire and a cosy ’ome do come in comfortable when a man be feelin’ a bit rocky,” urged Hewson more decisively than usual. “No dinner—that be bad! I feel sorry for ye, neighbour, I do indeed!”

The miller stood still and stared a minute, and then he broke into his loud, resonant laugh.

“Oh, ye bain’t no call to be sorry for me,” he said cheerily. “I be gettin’ on fust-rate, thank ye,” and he shifted the brown-paper parcel from one arm to the other. “We was but passin’ opinions on the breeds and pedigrees o’ the women-folk, as far as I be aware. Why, I’d rather ’ave all the pumps on at once than see the ricks a-burnin’ for ten minutes. Each man to ’is taste, neighbour, and thank you for a ’alf hour’s exchange ’o notions, so to speak.”

Hewson smiled, a trifle bewildered.

“That be it,” said he genially. “Each man to ’is taste, or in other words—let every one put up wi’ what ’e ’ave got. A blemish is a blemish, but the mare may be sound for all that.”

“Sound!” began the miller, half angrily. But he had reached the top of the hill; his own garden-gate was in sight, and his own house-door opened and sent a flood of yellow light down the walk to put out the white moonbeams on the hollyhocks and the sunflowers.

“Right ye be, man,” cried he good-humouredly, slapping his comrade noisily on the back. “We won’t fight over ’em; there’s blemishes, I dare say, but the mares be both sound for all that.”

And on the doorstep the women were exchanging a last word.

The miller’s wife, warmed to further unbosoming by a seductive cup of tea, was pouring final confidences into Mrs. Hewson’s willing ear.

“If you’d believe it,” she was saying shyly, “there were a time when I were nigh to fancyin’ Mr. Hewson myself. Not that there iver were much atween us, and I don’t know as I could say ’e iver come nigh to askin’ me. But ’e were that kind and gentle, I thought as ’e’d make a nice, considerin’ ’usbin’, and I thought I could ha’ got him if I’d tried. But, Lor’, now I know ’e’ve so little sperrit, I don’t think as it’d ha’ suited at all.”

“Oh, don’t ye!” retorted Martha, with a good dash of honest viciousness in her tones which the other was too dense or too pre-occupied to notice.

“I ain’t got your ’ealth nor yet your managin’ ways, ye see,” Milly was murmuring on softly. “Not but what I do pity you, my dear....”

“Well, then, ye needn’t to do no such thing,” interrupted Mrs. Hewson sharply. “My man may be a bit soft o’ times—though ’ow you come to fancy it, I be sure I don’t know—but ’e don’t come masterin’ it over a body, nor yet ’e don’t spend his evenin’s at the ‘Public,’ and leave ’is wife alone at the fire-side. If I was a chatterbox I might ’ave a word to say ’bout bygones too! But, Lor’ bless me, I niver was one to boast! Nor yet to ’anker after showin’ up as I was once nigh upon makin’ a fool o’ myself!”

Martha laughed a rough laugh, and the ready eyes of the miller’s wife filled with tears.

“My word, I don’t know what ye mean!” faltered she with quivering voice. “But if anybody says as my Dan neglects ’is wife....”

“Well, there, least said soonest mended,” put in Martha Hewson hurriedly, for she had seen two dark forms coming up the hill in the moonlight. Her temper had been “up” at the slight which the other, in her foolishness, had dealt to her “man”; and she had not the smallest intention of hearing him made light of, however much she might grind him down herself. But being a good-natured soul at bottom, and not anxious moreover to give herself away, she was not going to have this silly conversation overheard.

“I don’t know as it is,” began the foolish little woman, swallowing her tears. “I shall tell Dan what ye said, and....”

“If ye do ye’ll ’ave to tell ’im who ’t were said he went to the ‘Public’ every night,” laughed Martha, jeering. But she added quickly: “There, ye mustn’t mind me. I’ve a rough tongue, but I don’t mean no ’arm. We’ve both on us ’ad a gossip and talked a bit o’ nonsense, but there bain’t no bones broke arter all. You dry yer eyes and show your ’usbin’ a jolly face. Look, ere ’e be! I must be gone. I be late as ’tis. We’s off to-morrer, and I’ve got the bits o’ things to put together. Good-night.”

Martha had seen that her own husband was with the other, and she did not intend him to come up that garden-path just then if she could help it.

“Good-night!” echoed the little woman, who, if none so clever as her friend by a long way, saw the point of what she had said very well. She concealed the signs of her perturbation as she was bid, and held out a meek, limp hand.

“Good luck,” whispered Martha, seizing the hand in her powerful grasp. “Mind you put lots o’ spunk into it all!”

And as she spoke the words she remembered the request that had been made to her by her one-time sweetheart as she came in!

Well, she had fulfilled it!

And without another word she sped down the walk, and was out on the downs before Dan Moss and her husband had reached the gate.

“What, ye be never off in such a darned ’urry!” cried the former as she came up to them. “I won’t stand that! Ye’ve got to come back and both on ye ’ave a drink for old times’ sake.”

“Thank you kindly,” said she. “We don’t often drink nothin’ but a glass o’ beer o’ dinner-time don’t Bill and me.”

“Well, ye’ll ’ave to this time,” insisted the man hospitably. “This pore man o’ yourn’s just pumped out.”

“Oh, ’e be right enough, bain’t ye, Bill?” said she.

“Yes, I be right enough,” agreed the man addressed, and wouldn’t have dared to admit the contrary.

“A warm posset’s the best thing for ’im when ’e gets to bed. So we’ll just get along and see to it.”

She buttoned his coat tight about his throat as she spoke, and gave him a friendly thump on the back.

“Yer wife’s tired,” she added. “She ought to turn in too. The brat ain’t very old yet.”

“Tired, be she?” said Moss, and scratched his head. “Well, if ye won’t, ye won’t,” he added presently. “So, it’s good-night to ye.”

“Good-night,” echoed the husband and wife in one breath as they turned down the hill.

Moss stood a minute looking after them, whistling a rowdy, popular song in a slow, contemplative sort of way.

Then he turned with a chuckle.

“Rum lot,” he said to himself as he opened his garden-gate.

At the porch the little wife stood waiting. Her eyes were dry and there was a pretty smile on her lips.

“Ye are nice and early to-night,” she said affectionately.

“Why, ye asked me to come ’ome early, didn’t ye?” he whispered, pinching her ear.

And she did not say that she always made that request without it’s being always attended to.

“But ye ain’t been lonesome this time,” he added. “’Aven’t you and Mrs. Hewson had a nice chat?”

“Yes,” she said doubtfully.

He laughed his jolly laugh.

“Ye don’t care over much for the woman, I can see,” chuckled he. “Well, she be a bit rumbustious though a well-meanin’ wench enough. I used to half-fancy ’er myself once, but she bain’t my style, I likes ’em cosier nor that.”

And he drew his wife’s smooth, fair head to his bosom and kissed her.

“See ’ere,” said he, “I’ve bought ye a present.”

He untied the brown-paper parcel and spread out a black silk dress.

Milly’s eyes shone and she clapped her hands.

“For me! What, niver!” she murmured.

“Oh, ain’t it!” he chuckled. “You should ha’ ’ad it long ago only I ’adn’t just got the cash ’andy. There!” and he threw it across to her merrily.

“You be kind to me, Dan,” whispered she, and she threw her arms round his neck.

Down in the hollow below the downs, Martha was hurrying her husband along. She had him by the elbow that she might the better urge him forward, and whenever he opened his mouth to speak she bade him hold his tongue, for though the moon was bright, the wind whistled from the nor’-west and the air was keen.

But she talked for two.

“To think of it, Bill!” laughed she. “There were a time when I was sweet on that great ’ulkin’ chap up yonder. Yes, and ’e on me, too! We’s changed our minds since then, ain’t we! He ’ave got a little ninny of a wife and no mistake! I wouldn’t stand bein’ chucked about as ’e do ’er. So I s’pose we be both best suited as we be.”

“I shouldn’t wonder,” agreed Bill Hewson through his mufflers.

And then they reached the inn and went in to the warmth, and Martha Hewson saw her husband to bed.