father put up. The landlord was Brangwen's old
friend, and Anna was made much of. She sat many a day in the
cosy parlour talking to Mr. Wigginton, a fat man with red hair,
the landlord. And when the farmers all gathered at twelve
o'clock for dinner, she was a little heroine.

At first she would only glower or hiss at these strange men
with their uncouth accent. But they were good-humoured. She was
a little oddity, with her fierce, fair hair like spun glass
sticking out in a flamy halo round the apple-blossom face and
the black eyes, and the men liked an oddity. She kindled their
attention.

She was very angry because Marriott, a gentleman-farmer from
Ambergate, called her the little pole-cat.

"Why, you're a pole-cat," he said to her.

"I'm not," she flashed.

"You are. That's just how a pole-cat goes."

She thought about it.

"Well, you're--you're----" she began.

"I'm what?"

She looked him up and down.

"You're a bow-leg man."

Which he was. There was a roar of laughter. They loved her
that she was indomitable.

"Ah," said Marriott. "Only a pole-cat says that."

"Well, I am a pole-cat," she flamed.

There was another roar of laughter from the men.

They loved to tease her.

"Well, me little maid," Braithwaite would say to her, "an'
how's th' lamb's wool?"

He gave a tug at a glistening, pale piece of her hair.

"It's not lamb's wool," said Anna, indignantly putting back
her offended lock.

"Why, what'st ca' it then?"

"It's hair."

"Hair! Wheriver dun they rear that sort?"

"Wheriver dun they?" she asked, in dialect, her curiosity
overcoming her.

Instead of answering he shouted with joy. It was the triumph,
to make her speak dialect.

She had one enemy, the man they called Nut-Nat, or Nat-Nut, a
cretin, with inturned feet, who came flap-lapping along,
shoulder jerking up at every step. This poor creature sold nuts
in the public-houses where he was known. He had no roof to his
mouth, and the men used to mock his speech.

The first time he came into the "George" when Anna was there,
she asked, after he had gone, her eyes very round:

"Why does he do that when he walks?"

"'E canna 'elp 'isself, Duckie, it's th' make o' th'
fellow."

She thought about it, then she laughed nervously. And then
she bethought herself, her cheeks flushed, and she cried:

"He's a horrid man."

"Nay, he's non horrid; he canna help it if he wor struck that
road."

But when poor Nat came wambling