eproachful look.

"Why you do--it's the new housekeeper."

"Ay--an' what by that?"

"Well, an' what by that?" rejoined the indignant
Tilly.

"She's a woman, isn't she, housekeeper or no housekeeper?
She's got more to her than that! Who is she--she's got a
name?"

"Well, if she has, I don't know," retorted Tilly, not
to be badgered by this lad who had grown up into a man.

"What's her name?" he asked, more gently.

"I'm sure I couldn't tell you," replied Tilly, on her
dignity.

"An' is that all as you've gathered, as she's housekeeping at
the vicarage?"

"I've 'eered mention of 'er name, but I couldn't remember it
for my life."

"Why, yer riddle-skulled woman o' nonsense, what have you got
a head for?"

"For what other folks 'as got theirs for," retorted Tilly,
who loved nothing more than these tilts when he would call her
names.

There was a lull.

"I don't believe as anybody could keep it in their head," the
woman-servant continued, tentatively.

"What?" he asked.

"Why, 'er name."

"How's that?"

"She's fra some foreign parts or other."

"Who told you that?"

"That's all I do know, as she is."

"An' wheer do you reckon she's from, then?"

"I don't know. They do say as she hails fra th' Pole. I don't
know," Tilly hastened to add, knowing he would attack her.

"Fra th' Pole, why do you hail fra th' Pole? Who set
up that menagerie confabulation?"

"That's what they say--I don't know----"

"Who says?"

"Mrs. Bentley says as she's fra th' Pole--else she is a
Pole, or summat."

Tilly was only afraid she was landing herself deeper now.

"Who says she's a Pole?"

"They all say so."

"Then what's brought her to these parts?"

"I couldn't tell you. She's got a little girl with her."

"Got a little girl with her?"

"Of three or four, with a head like a fuzz-ball."

"Black?"

"White--fair as can be, an' all of a fuzz."

"Is there a father, then?"

"Not to my knowledge. I don't know."

"What brought her here?"

"I couldn't say, without th' vicar axed her."

"Is the child her child?"

"I s'd think so--they say so."

"Who told you about her?"

"Why, Lizzie--a-Monday--we seed her goin'
past."

"You'd have to be rattling your tongues if anything went
past."

Brangwen stood musing. That evening he went up to Cossethay
to the "Red Lion", half with the intention of hearing more.

She was the widow of a Polish doctor, he gathered. Her
husband had died, a refugee, in Lo