“Out at service,” replied Jane, unwillingly, fidgetting with her hands and feet.

“So your coming here has meant that she’s got no home,” said Anne.

“She could have had one if she’d liked,” said Burton.  “The house is big enough for us all.”

“Thank God for His protecting grace!” said Anne, “she was able to resist the temptation.”

“She’d have had to go out to service in any case,” said Jane, spitefully; “the neighbours was so very kind to two girls.”

“Jane, I knew your grandmother,” said Anne, “and I know how hard she had to work to keep you two girls respectably dressed and cared for.  I know you think I’m an interfering, peculiar woman and an old maid, but your grandmother was no old maid.  She lost your mother who’d have worked and kept her when she was old, and instead of having an arm to lean on, she’d to work morning, noon, and night, to give you two girls a home.  She was working when other people was sleeping.  It’s better even to go to the Union than to do as you’ve done.”

Jane, after twisting her fingers together, pulled out her handkerchief with a jerk and began to cry, thus rousing the indolent anger of Richard Burton, who, with a blustering tone, as though he wanted to shout down an opponent, burst out—­

“Well, she’s here now and she’s not going away.  And you can tell the kind neighbours that we can look after ourselves without their assistance.  And as for them good girls that used to play with Jane, I know several who wouldn’t have been slow to take the place. I’ll look after Jane all right.  And we’re much obliged for your visit, Miss Hilton,” he continued, ironically.  “We can spare you for quite a long time now.  You can save yourself the walk another time.  If you want to be home for dinner-time, you’d better be starting, don’t you think?”

Anne rose stiffly, limping with rheumatism.

“Jane love, come with me,” she said; “I can shelter you for a time, I can give you—­”

“No I won’t,” retorted Jane, petulantly, turning her back.

Anne went slowly out of the room.  Richard Burton accompanied her with offensive heartiness.

“Well, good morning, Miss Hilton,” he said, opening the door with the stained glass window, and stepping into the red-tiled porch, he looked up at the sky.  “I believe it’s stopped raining—­all the better for your rheumatism, eh?  Well! give my love to the neighbours you think so much of,” he shouted with a laugh, and shut the door.  Anne opened the wooden gate with brass nails, and shutting it behind her stood again in the dripping lane.

CHAPTER X

The stirring of anger at Richard Burton’s callousness gave way almost at once to a feeling of fatigue and defeat as she started on her return home, and a persistent image of Jane, a little girl playing skipping-ropes in red stockings, kept coming before her eyes.  One or two gigs passed her, splashing among the pools of the road.  The birds began to sing with a clarity as sweet as that of the purified air.  There was still a tinkling of running water from every side, but the clouds were in shreds, and patches of blue sky were uncovered here and there.