“No, I never remarked that.”

“You know,” he said presently, “in spite of all my bounce, I was a shy man.

“It’s the fact, Mav.  And my shyness came between me and others.  I couldn’t take them sufficiently free.  I wanted all the overtures to come from them, and I was too ready to draw in my horns if they didn’t seem to accept me straight at what I judged my own value.  For a long while now it has been my endeavor to sink what was once described to me as my pers’nal equation.  I don’t think of myself at all, if I can help it; and the consequence is the shyness gets pushed into the background, my manner becomes more free and open, and people begin to treat me in a more friendly spirit.”

And he wound up his discourse by returning to the original cause of satisfaction.

“Yes, I do think there are some now that like me for myself—­not many, but just one or two, besides dear old Mr. Bates.”

“Everybody does.  Why, look at that child, Norah.  Only been here a month, and worships the ground you tread on.”

“Poor little mite.  That’s her notion of being grateful for what I did for her father.  Does she eat just the same?”

“Ravenous.”

“Don’t stint her,” said Dale, impressively.  “Feed her ad lib.  Give her all she’ll swallow.  It’s the leeway she’s got to make up;” and he turned his eyes toward the kitchen door.  “Is she out there?”

“Yes.”

“I spoke loud.  You don’t think she heard what I said?”

“Oh, no.  She’s busy with Mrs. Goudie.”

“I wouldn’t like for her to hear us discussing her victuals as though she was an animal.”

“You might have thought she was verily an animal,” said Mavis, “if you’d seen her at the first meals we set before her.  And even now it brings a lump into my throat to watch her.”

“Just so.”

“When I told her to undress that night to wash herself, she was a sight to break one’s heart.  Her poor little ribs were almost sticking through the skin; and, Will, I thought of one of ours ever being treated so.”

Dale got up from the table, his face glowing redly, his brows frowning; and he stretched his arms to their full length.

“By Jupiter!” he said thickly, “if only Mrs. Neath had been a man, I’d ‘a’ given him—­well, at the least, I’d ‘a’ given him a piece of my mind.  I’d have told him what I thought of him.”

“I promise you,” said Mavis, “that I told Mrs. Neath what I thought of her.”

“An’ I’m right glad you did.”

This new inmate under their roof was Norah Veale, a twelve-year-old daughter of the Hadleigh Wood hurdle-maker.  Mavis, taking a present of tea and sugar to one of the Cross Roads cottages, had found her digging in the garden, and, struck by her pitiful aspect, had questioned her and elicited her history.  It was a common enough one in those parts.  Not being wanted at home, she had been “lent” to