e-field and a potato-patch. These
what-d'you-call-'ems, Civil servants, are only fit to tot up
figures and play around with a woman's wardrobe every time she
crosses the border. Thank goodness I'm not of the travelling kind;
I'm sure I should hide my face for very shame every time I saw a
Customs officer."

The round, rosy face of the farm-wife assumed a deeper hue, and her
still comely lips were pursed into an indignant _moue_. Her smooth
grey head, adorned by a black lace cap trimmed with pearl beads, was
turned in the direction of the two other occupants of the room, who
were more or less buried in the obscurity of a distant corner.

For a moment she gazed at the dimly-outlined figure of a man who was
seated on one of the horse-hair chairs, leaning towards the sofa on
which reclined the form of her daughter, Prudence. His elbows were
resting on his knees and his chin was supported upon his two clenched
fists. He was talking earnestly. Mrs. Malling watched him for some
moments, then her eyes drifted to the girl, the object of her
solicitude.

Although the latter was in the shadow her features were, even at this
distance, plainly discernible. There was a strong resemblance between
mother and daughter. They were both of medium dark complexion, with
strong colouring. Both were possessed of delightfully sweet brown
eyes, and mouths and chins firm but shapely. The one remarkable
difference between them was in the nasal organ. While the mother's was
short, well-rounded, and what one would call pretty though ordinary,
the girl's was prominent and aquiline with a decided bridge. This
feature gave the younger woman a remarkable amount of character to her
face. Altogether hers was a face which, wherever she went, would
inevitably attract admiring attention. Just now she was evidently
teasing the man before her, and the mother turned back to the stove
with a merry twinkle in her eyes.

"I think Prudence will teach him a few lessons," she murmured to her
friend.

"What--about the farm?"

"Well, I wasn't just thinking of the farm."

The two ladies smiled into each other's faces.

"She is a good child," observed Mrs. Gurridge affectionately, after
awhile.

"Or she wouldn't be her father's child."

"Or your daughter, Hephzibah," said Sarah Gurridge sincerely.

The two relapsed into silence. The glowing coals in the stove shook
lower and received augmentation from the supply above. Darkness was
drawing on.

Prudence