child asked fiercely:

"Why do you sleep with my mother? My mother
sleeps with me," her voice quivering.

"You come as well, an' sleep with both of us," he coaxed.

"Mother!" she cried, turning, appealing against him.

"But I must have a husband, darling. All women must have a
husband."

"And you like to have a father with your mother, don't you?"
said Brangwen.

Anna glowered at him. She seemed to cogitate.

"No," she cried fiercely at length, "no, I don't
want." And slowly her face puckered, she sobbed bitterly.
He stood and watched her, sorry. But there could be no altering
it.

Which, when she knew, she became quiet. He was easy with her,
talking to her, taking her to see the live creatures, bringing
her the first chickens in his cap, taking her to gather the
eggs, letting her throw crusts to the horse. She would easily
accompany him, and take all he had to give, but she remained
neutral still.

She was curiously, incomprehensibly jealous of her mother,
always anxiously concerned about her. If Brangwen drove with his
wife to Nottingham, Anna ran about happily enough, or
unconcerned, for a long time. Then, as afternoon came on, there
was only one cry--"I want my mother, I want my
mother----" and a bitter, pathetic sobbing that soon
had the soft-hearted Tilly sobbing too. The child's anguish was
that her mother was gone, gone.

Yet as a rule, Anna seemed cold, resenting her mother,
critical of her. It was:

"I don't like you to do that, mother," or, "I don't like you
to say that." She was a sore problem to Brangwen and to all the
people at the Marsh. As a rule, however, she was active, lightly
flitting about the farmyard, only appearing now and again to
assure herself of her mother. Happy she never seemed, but quick,
sharp, absorbed, full of imagination and changeability. Tilly
said she was bewitched. But it did not matter so long as she did
not cry. There was something heart-rending about Anna's crying,
her childish anguish seemed so utter and so timeless, as if it
were a thing of all the ages.

She made playmates of the creatures of the farmyard, talking
to them, telling them the stories she had from her mother,
counselling them and correcting them. Brangwen found her at the
gate leading to the paddock and to the duckpond. She was peering
through the bars and shouting to the stately white geese, that
stood in a curving line:

"You're not to call at people when they want to come. You
must not