for the rivalry that endured from day to day between them.  Their hungry hearts, all the latent bitternesses in their natures, yearning for expression, found it in his presence.  But alone, whatever their angers, they were generally silent.  It may have been that their love was strong, or that their courage failed, or that the energy required for conflict was not aroused.  That they deeply loved one another was sure; there was rivalry, jealousy, irritation between them, but it did not affect their love.  The jealousy was a part of their general discontent—­a jealousy that would grow more intense as each remained frustrate and unhappy.  Neither understood the forces at work within herself; each saw these perversely illustrated in the other’s faults.  In each case the cause of unhappiness was unsatisfied love, unsatisfied craving for love.  It was more acute in Emmy’s case, because she was older and because the love she needed was under her eyes being wasted upon Jenny—­if it were love, and not that mixture of admiration and desire with self-esteem that goes to make the common formula to which the name of love is generally attached.  Jenny could not be jealous of Emmy as Emmy was jealous of Jenny.  She had no cause; Emmy was not her rival.  Jenny’s rival was life itself, as will be shown hereafter:  she had her own pain.

It was thus only natural that the two girls, having pushed Pa’s chair to the side of the kitchen fire, and having loaded and set light to Pa’s pipe, should work together in silence for a few minutes, clearing the table and washing the supper dishes.  They were distant, both aggrieved; Emmy with labouring breath and a sense of bitter animosity, Jenny with the curled lip of one triumphant who does not need her triumph and would abandon it at the first move of forgiveness.  They could not speak.  The work was done, and Emmy was rinsing the washing basin, before Jenny could bring herself to say awkwardly what she had in her mind.

“Em,” she began.  “I didn’t know you ... you know.”  A silence.  Emmy continued to swirl the water round with the small washing-mop, her face averted.  Jenny’s lip stiffened.  She made another attempt, to be the last, restraining her irritation with a great effort.  “If you like I won’t ...  I won’t go out with him any more.”

“Oh, you needn’t worry,” Emmy doggedly said, with her teeth almost clenched.  “I’m not worrying about it.”  She tried then to keep silent; but the words were forced from her wounded heart.  With uncontrollable sarcasm she said:  “It’s very good of you, I’m sure!”

“Em!” It was coaxing.  Jenny went nearer.  Still there was no reply.  “Em ... don’t be a silly cat.  If he’d only ask you to go once or twice.  He’d always want to.  You needn’t worry about me being ...  See, I like somebody else—­another fellow.  He’s on a ship.  Nowhere near here.  I only go with Alf because ... well, after all, he’s a man; and they’re scarce.  Suppose I leave off going with him....”