time Cowslip calved, the darling choosing the one
night old Burton was away and Jim down with flu. She had to hold the
lantern. Straw littered in the half-lighted shed. Cowslip swinging her
bald-faced head round to you, her humble, sorrowful eyes imploring,
between her groans and the convulsive heavings of her flanks. A noise
between a groan and a bellow, a supreme convulsion. The dark wall, the
white funnel of light from the lantern, and John's face in the flash....

But he had been sorry for Cowslip. Going out with the lantern afterwards
she had found him in the yard, by the wall, bent double, shivering and
retching. And she had sung out to him "Buck up, John. She's licked it
clean. It's the dearest little calf you ever saw."

Pity. Pity could drag your face tight and hard, like Burton's when his
mare, Jenny, died of colic.

But before that--the night they went to Stow Fair together; crossing
the street at the sharp turn by the church gate, something happened.
They hadn't heard the motor car coming; it was down on them before they
could see it, swerving round her side of the street. He had had his
hand tight on her arm to steer her through the crowd. When the car
came ... when the car came ... he let go and jumped clean to the curb.
She could feel the splash-board graze her thigh, as she sprang clear of
it, quick, like a dog.

She was sure he jumped first. She was sure he hadn't let her go before
the car came. She could see the blaze of the lamps and feel his grip
slacken on her arm.

She wasn't sure. He couldn't have jumped. He couldn't have let go. Of
course he hadn't. She had imagined it. She imagined all sorts of things.
If she could make them bad enough she would stop thinking about him; she
would stop caring. She didn't want to care.

* * * * *

"Charlotte--when I die, that's where I'd like to be buried."

Coming back from Bourton market they had turned into the churchyard on
the top of Stow-hill. The long path went straight between the stiff yew
cones through the green field set with graves.

"On the top, so high up you could almost breathe in your coffin here."

"I don't want to breathe in my coffin. When I'm dead I'm dead, and when
I'm alive I'm alive. Don't talk about dying."

"Why not? Think of the gorgeous risk of it--the supreme toss up. After
all, death's the most thrilling thing that happens."

"Whose death?"

"My death."

"Don't _talk_ about it."

"Your