‘I believe you want me “hatched over again and hatched different"!’ she said one evening to Hester, as she laid her volume of ‘Adam Bede’ aside.

‘Do I ever say so?’

‘No—­but—­if you were me—­you wouldn’t stop here moping!’ said Nelly, with sudden passion.  ‘You’d strike out—­do something!’

‘With these hands?’ said Hester, raising one of them, and looking at it pitifully.  ‘My dear—­does Bridget feed you properly?’

‘I don’t know.  I never think about it.  She settles it.’

‘Why do you let her settle it?’

‘She will!’ cried Nelly, sitting upright in her chair, her eyes bright and cheeks flushing, as though something in Hester’s words accused her.  ‘I couldn’t stop her!’

‘Well, but when she’s away?’

‘Then Mrs. Rowe settles it,’ said Nelly, half laughing.  ’I never enquire.  What does it matter?’

She put down her knitting, and her wide, sad eyes followed the clouds as they covered the purple breast of the Langdales, which rose in threatening, thunder light, beyond the steely tarn in front.  Hester watched her anxiously.  How lovely was the brown head, with its short curls enclosing the delicate oval of the face!  But Nelly’s lack of grip on life, of any personal demand, of any healthy natural egotism, whether towards Bridget, or anybody else, was very disquieting to Hester.  In view of the situation which the older woman saw steadily approaching, how welcome would have been some signs of a greater fighting strength in the girl’s nature!

* * * * *

But Nelly had made two friends since the migration to the farm with whom at any rate she laughed; and that, as Hester admitted, was something.

One was a neighbouring farmer, an old man, with splendid eyes, under dark bushy brows, fine ascetic features, grizzled hair, and a habit of carrying a scythe over his shoulder which gave him the look of ’Old Father Time,’ out for the mowing of men.  The other was the little son of a neighbouring parson, an urchin of eight, who had succumbed to an innocent passion for the pretty lady at the farm.

One radiant October afternoon, Nelly carried out a chair and some sketching things into the garden.  But the scheme Farrell had suggested to her, of making a profession of her drawing, had not come to much.  Whether it was the dying down of hope, and therewith of physical energy, or whether she had been brought up sharp against the limits of her small and graceful talent, and comparing herself with Farrell, thought it no use to go on—­in any case, she had lately given it up, except as an amusement.  But there are days when the humblest artist feels the creative stir; and on this particular afternoon there were colours and lights abroad on the fells, now dyed red with withering fern, and overtopped by sunny cloud, that could not be resisted.  She put away the splints she was covering, and spread out her easel.