A small meanness in another depressed her as much as if she had done it herself.  Once she had walked five miles to deliver some butter and returned utterly dejected, not alone from fatigue, but because she had been offered nothing to eat or drink after her long tramp.  It would have been useless to point out to her that she had gone on a purely business errand.  It was one of those small meannesses of which she was herself incapable, and a proportion of warmth had died out of her belief.

“You know my sister Jane’s son?” said a farmer’s wife, who had stopped her trap at the cottage to pick up a lidded wisket in which some earthenware had been packed.  “He’s getting a good-looking young man and he’s all for bettering himself.  Well, he went and got his photo taken at Drayton and brought them in to show his mother.  She was making jam at the time, and she’s not an easy tongue at the best o’ times.  ’What’s that?’ she says; ‘you don’t mean to say that’s a likeness o’ thee?  It looks fool enough.’  She says she never saw ’em again, he went straight out and burnt ’em.”

“He chose the wrong minit,” said her husband beside her.  “If he knew as much about women as I do, for instance.”

“Just you mind,” said his wife, warningly.  “Why, Miss Hilton, whatever’s the matter?” she added, catching sight of Anne’s face.

“It is such a painful story,” rejoined Anne.  “I cannot bear to think of the poor young man’s discomfiture.”

“Well, I never!” ejaculated the farmer, as they drove away.  “She’s very good, but, my word, she’s very peculiar.”

“If she was really very good she’d try not to be so peculiar,” retorted his wife, nettled at the failure of her story.  “Did you ever see such a figure, with her dress all unbuttoned at the back showing her stays.”

“She’s not got a husband to fasten the middle buttons,” said the farmer slyly.  “She can’t very well ask the pig, you know.”

“Well, no, she can’t,” said his wife, good-naturedly; “but she tries my patience pretty often.”

“That’s not so hard as it sounds,” said the farmer, looking innocently in front of him.

“Now, then,” said his wife, “who wanted a potato-pie for supper?”

“I expect it was our Joseph,” said the farmer.

“Not it,” retorted his wife.

“Well, myself, I prefer women who aren’t so peculiar,” said the farmer.  “Even if they’re not so good,” he added.

“Take care,” replied his wife.  “That potato-pie isn’t in the oven yet!”

CHAPTER IV