when they dropped for a wink at a neighbour.
Joanna waltzing with Socknersh to the trills of Mr. Elphick, the Brodnyx
schoolmaster, seated at the tinkling, ancient Collard, Joanna in her
pink gown, close fitting to her waist and then abnormally bunchy, with
her hair piled high and twisted with a strand of ribbon, with her face
flushed, her lips parted and her eyes bright, was a sight from which no
man and few women could turn their eyes. Her vitality and happiness
seemed to shine from her skin, almost to light up the dark and heavy
figure of Socknersh in his Sunday blacks, as he staggered and stumbled,
for he could not dance. His big hand pawed at her silken waist, while
the other held hers crumpled in it--his hair was greased with butter,
and his skin with the sweat of his endeavour as he turned her round.

That was the only time Joanna danced that night. For the rest of the
evening she went about among her guests, seeing that all were well fed
and had partners. As time went on, gradually her brightness dimmed, and
her eyes became almost anxious as she searched among the dancers. Each
time she looked she seemed to see the same thing, and each time she saw
it, it was as if a fresh veil dropped over her eyes.

At last, towards the end of the evening, she went up again to Socknersh.

"Would you like me to dance this polka with you that's coming?"

"Thank you, missus--I'd be honoured, missus--but I'm promised to Martha
Tilden."

"Martha!--You've danced with her nearly all the evening."

"She's bin middling kind to me, missus, showing me the steps and hops."

"Oh, well, since you've promised you must pay."

She turned her back on him, then suddenly smarted at her own
pettishness.

"You've the makings of a good dancer in you, if you'll learn," she said
over her shoulder. "I'm glad Martha's teaching you."

Sec.14

Lambing was always late upon the Marsh. The wan film of the winter
grasses had faded off the April green before the innings became noisy
with bleating, and the new-born lambs could match their whiteness with
the first flowering of the blackthorn.

It was always an anxious time--though the Marsh ewes were hardy--and
sleepless for shepherds, who from the windows of their lonely lambing
huts watched the yellow spring-dazzle of the stars grow pale night after
night. They were bad hours to be awake, those hours of the April dawn,
for in them, the shepherds said, a strange call came down from the
coun