like a swan, and her
voice was eager and rather secret. Joanna lost the thread of Mrs.
Southland's reminiscences of her last dairy-girl, and she watched Ellen,
watched her hands, watched the shrug of her shoulders under her
gown--the girl's whole body seemed to be moving, not restlessly or
jerkily, but with a queer soft ripple.

Then Joanna suddenly said to herself--"She loves him. Ellen wants Arthur
Alce." Her first emotion was of anger, a resolve to stop this impudence;
but the next minute she pitied instead--Ellen, with her fragile beauty,
her little die-away airs, would never be able to get Arthur Alce from
Joanna, to whom he belonged. He was hers, both by choice and habit, and
Ellen would never get him. Then from pity, she passed into
tenderness--she was sorry Ellen could not get Arthur, could not have him
when she wanted him, while Joanna, who could have him, did not want him.
It would be a good thing for her, too. Alce was steady and
well-established--he was not like those mucky young Vines and
Southlands. Ellen would be safe to marry him. It was a pity she hadn't a
chance.

Joanna looked almost sentimentally at the couple ahead--then she
suddenly made up her mind. "If I spoke to Arthur Alce, I believe I could
make him do it." She could make Arthur do most things, and she did not
see why he should stop at this. Of course she did not want Ellen to
marry him or anybody, but now she had once come to think of it she could
see plainly, in spite of herself, that marriage would be a good thing
for her sister. She was being forced up against the fact that her
schemes for Ellen had failed--school-life had spoiled her, home-life was
making both her and home miserable. The best thing she could do would be
to marry, but she must marry a good man and true--Alce was both good and
true, and moreover his marriage would set Joanna free from his hang-dog
devotion, of which she was beginning to grow heartily tired. She
appreciated his friendship and his usefulness, but they could both
survive, and she would at the same time be free of his sentimental
lapses, the constant danger of a declaration. Yes, Ellen should have
him--she would make a present of him to Ellen.

Sec.13

"Arthur, I want a word with you."

They were alone in the parlour, Ellen having been dispatched resentfully
on an errand to Great Ansdore.

"About them wethers?"

"No--it's a different thing. Arthur, have you noticed that Ellen's sweet
on you?"