“Here’s Mary!” said Anne Hilton aloud, turning towards the door and moving a chair.  A woman of about forty-three, with a basket on one arm and walking with a strong stick, came steadily towards the door.  She would have been comely if it had not been for a fixed frown which seemed odd on her pleasant, good-tempered face.  She wore a print bodice, with a point back and front, and a short bunchy stuff skirt.  Though Sarah was well in sight she took no notice of her, but walked straight on towards her, until the latter said with evident pleasure—­

“It’s you, Mary!”

“Yes!” answered Mary, with a slight start.

“How are you?”

“Quite well,” said Sarah.  “Here’s the door.”  She laid her hand over that of the other woman and set it on the side of the post, at the same time taking her basket, which was full of eggs, and only partially covered by a cloth.

“How many?” she asked.  “Have you counted?”

“Four dozen,” replied Mary.  “Have you finished your butter?”

“It’s coming,” said Anne, taking the handle again.

“Let me try,” said Mary.  “I often think I could manage butter nicely.”

“Don’t get too clever,” said Anne.  “You do a wonderful lot already.  Stop and sit a bit, won’t you?  Let me see if you know where your chair is.”

The woman stepped into the dairy, turned to the left of the door, and sat down without hesitation in the chair which Sarah had moved on first perceiving her approach, and as she did so one could see that the frown, so out of place on her steady and tranquil face, had an origin of tragedy.  She was blind.

CHAPTER V

Mary Colton was one of the most esteemed women possible in any country-side.  She had scarcely been beyond the few miles which surrounded her home, and since she was a girl had never set foot in a train.  She had not been born blind, but had had her sight until she was seventeen, when an illness darkened the world for ever.  “A pretty girl she was too,” said those who remembered.  Of the prettiness she retained now only the essence, that of her pleasant goodness, yet her appearance was still attractive in spite of her thick figure and contracted brows.  She had not that unearthly exalted expression so familiar to one in the blind, who look upwards for the light and search in vain.  Rather, unless one looked narrowly, one would take her for a middle-aged woman of good health and steady temper, who was a little short-sighted.  She used a stick out of doors, and when she went very long distances she took with her a small terrier, which warned her of the difficult parts of the road.  But indoors she moved about freely, knowing to an inch how much room each piece of furniture occupied, and seldom knocking against anything as she moved about her work.