which shone round their little sickly faces.  Very soon she had begun to haunt them in her eager way, to try and penetrate their peasant lives, which were so full of enigma and attraction to her, mainly because of their very defectiveness, their closeness to an animal simplicity, never to be reached by any one of her sort.  She soon discovered or imagined that Hurd had more education than his neighbours.  At any rate, he would sit listening to her—­and smoking, as she made him do—­while she talked politics and socialism to him; and though he said little in return, she made the most of it, and was sure anyway that he was glad to see her come in, and must some time read the labour newspapers and Venturist leaflets she brought him, for they were always well thumbed before they came back to her.

But to-night his sullen weariness would make no effort, and the hunted restless glances he threw from side to side as he sat crouching over the fire—­the large mouth tight shut, the nostrils working—­showed her that he would be glad when she went away.

Her young exacting temper was piqued.  She had been for some time trying to arrange their lives for them.  So, in spite of his dumb resistance, she lingered on, questioning and suggesting.  As to the advertisement she had brought down, he put it aside almost without looking at it.  “There ud be a hun’erd men after it before ever he could get there,” was all he would say to it.  Then she inquired if he had been to ask the steward of the Maxwell Court estate for work.  He did not answer, but Mrs. Hurd said timidly that she heard tell a new drive was to be made that winter for the sake of giving employment.  But their own men on the estate would come first, and there were plenty of them out of work.

“Well, but there is the game,” persisted Marcella.  “Isn’t it possible they might want some extra men now the pheasant shooting has begun.  I might go and inquire of Westall—­I know him a little.”

The wife made a startled movement, and Hurd raised his misshapen form with a jerk.

“Thank yer, miss, but I’ll not trouble yer.  I don’t want nothing to do with Westall.”

And taking up a bit of half-burnt wood which lay on the hearth, he threw it violently back into the grate.  Marcella looked from one to the other with surprise.  Mrs. Hurd’s expression was one of miserable discomfort, and she kept twisting her apron in her gnarled hands.

“Yes, I shall tell, Jim!” she broke out.  “I shall.  I know Miss Boyce is one as ull understand—­”

Hurd turned round and looked at his wife full.  But she persisted.

“You see, miss, they don’t speak, don’t Jim and George Westall.  When Jim was quite a lad he was employed at Mellor, under old Westall, George’s father as was.  Jim was ‘watcher,’ and young George he was assistant.  That was in Mr. Robert’s days, you understand, miss—­when Master Harold was alive; and they took a deal o’ trouble about the game.  An’ George Westall, he was allays leading the others a life—­tale-bearing an’ spyin’, an’ settin’ his father against any of ’em as didn’t give in to him.  An’, oh, he behaved fearful to Jim!  Jim ull tell you.  Now, Jim, what’s wrong with you—­why shouldn’t I tell?”