s place, that made her heart sink.

She came downstairs nervously. She was wearing a new net blouse that she
thought became her. It had a high collar with a tiny ruff, reminding her
of Mary, Queen of Scots, and making her, she thought, look wonderfully
a woman, and dignified. At twenty she was full-breasted and luxuriously
formed. Her face was still like a soft rich mask, unchangeable. But
her eyes, once lifted, were wonderful. She was afraid of him. He would
notice her new blouse.

He, being in a hard, ironical mood, was entertaining the family to
a description of a service given in the Primitive Methodist Chapel,
conducted by one of the well-known preachers of the sect. He sat at
the head of the table, his mobile face, with the eyes that could be so
beautiful, shining with tenderness or dancing with laughter, now taking
on one expression and then another, in imitation of various people he
was mocking. His mockery always hurt her; it was too near the reality.
He was too clever and cruel. She felt that when his eyes were like this,
hard with mocking hate, he would spare neither himself nor anybody else.
But Mrs. Leivers was wiping her eyes with laughter, and Mr. Leivers,
just awake from his Sunday nap, was rubbing his head in amusement.
The three brothers sat with ruffled, sleepy appearance in their
shirt-sleeves, giving a guffaw from time to time. The whole family loved
a "take-off" more than anything.

He took no notice of Miriam. Later, she saw him remark her new blouse,
saw that the artist approved, but it won from him not a spark of warmth.
She was nervous, could hardly reach the teacups from the shelves.

When the men went out to milk, she ventured to address him personally.

"You were late," she said.

"Was I?" he answered.

There was silence for a while.

"Was it rough riding?" she asked.

"I didn't notice it." She continued quickly to lay the table. When she
had finished--

"Tea won't be for a few minutes. Will you come and look at the
daffodils?" she said.

He rose without answering. They went out into the back garden under
the budding damson-trees. The hills and the sky were clean and cold.
Everything looked washed, rather hard. Miriam glanced at Paul. He was
pale and impassive. It seemed cruel to her that his eyes and brows,
which she loved, could look so hurting.

"Has the wind made you tired?" she asked. She detected an underneath
feeling of weariness about him.

"No, I think not," he answ