With the contentment of a woman of sound health and of active useful life, who was fully aware that her good sense and management were as necessary to the farm, her husband and twelve children, as his own knowledge of farming, she looked upon this as a just sense of her own value, as indeed it was, and the reward of the confidence which she so completely deserved from her husband.  She was generous to her poorer neighbours even when they cheated her.  Not taking it very deeply to heart nor expecting much otherwise, she was yet able to remember that her lot was an affluent one compared with theirs, and was ready to excuse even while being perfectly aware of human fraility.  Who, when she had sent to an old woman of the village who lived discontentedly on such pickings as she could induce her neighbours to leave her, and who had constantly profited by the liberality of this well-established mistress, a ticket for a large tea, and was informed by some officious person that the husband also had procured a ticket at her expense, said, “He’s a poor old crab-stick.  It’ll do him no harm to have a good tea for once.”

She was a contented woman, entirely satisfied with the position which life had allotted to her, a position in which all her faculties had full scope, and were to the full appreciated by those with whom she had most to do, and being of a really kind heart she was a good friend to the poor.  When Anne arrived at the door of the dairy, she found its mistress seated before a tin pail containing a mass of butter which she was dividing into prints.  With white sleeves and apron, a bucket of scalding water on one side of her and a pail of cold on the other, her ample knees spread apart for balance as she sat on a low chair, her bulky and capable hands moved with decision and practice about her work.  She looked up as Anne appeared in the doorway, but her hands did not cease working.

“It’s not often we have to do this,” she said, “but they sent down word that there was no milk wanted yesterday, so we had to set to.”

“It looks nice butter,” said Anne, with the judgment of a connoisseur.

“You ought to know what good butter is,” returned Mrs Hankworth.  “I’ve just been having a laugh over that Peter Molesworth.  He wrote on his account, “17 pints.”  Did you ever hear such a thing!  It took me quite a long time to know what 17 pints was.  Him and his 17 pints!”

“He’s not very clever, Peter,” said Anne, “but I don’t know what his poor mother would do without him.”

“No,” returned Mrs Hankworth, “he’s hard-working if he’s stupid, and that’s better than the other way round.”

“Mrs Hankworth,” began Anne, “I know what a good friend you’ve always been to those that have got into trouble, and I came to ask your advice about that poor Jane Evans.”

“I just heard of it the other day,” replied Mrs Hankworth, letting the butter-prints sink on her lap.  “I don’t know how it was I came to know of it so late.  I’d no idea till the other day that she’d ever gone to live with that Burton.  I wonder how she got acquainted with him.  There’s no men goes about their house.  What’s she doing now?”