“Well, she cannot help sleeping.”

“No,” after a long pause, “that’s true enough.  I tell you what it is—­I don’t want to live for ever.”

“Cannot you do anything to help yourself?  Have you seen the doctor?”

“Doctor!” in great scorn.  “He’s no more use than that there dog behind me, nor yet half so much.  I am better when I am at work, that’s all as I can tell.”

“Have you had plenty to do lately?”

“No, not much.  Folk are allers after me in the summer-time, but in the winter, when their gardens don’t want doing, they never have nothing to say to me.  There’s one thing about my missus, though.  She’s precious careful.  I never touches the money part of the business.  So we get’s along.”

Miriam knew the “missus” well.  She was a little thin-lipped woman, who, notwithstanding her poverty, was most particularly clean.  No speck of dirt was to be seen on her person or in her cottage, but she was as hard as flint.  She never showed the least affection for her husband.  They had married late in life—­why, nobody could tell—­and had one child, a girl, whom the mother seemed to disregard just as she did her husband, saving that she dressed her and washed her with the same care which she bestowed on her kettle and candlesticks.

“It’s a good thing for you, Fitchew, that she is what she is.”

Fitchew hesitated for some time.

“Yes, well, I said to myself, after I’d had a cup of tea and something to eat this morning—­I didn’t say it afore then, though—­that it might be wuss.  If she was allus a slaverin’ on me and a pityin’ me, it wouldn’t do me no good; and then we are as we are, and we must make the best of it.”

When Miriam parted from Fitchew she had still ten minutes’ walk.  Before the ten minutes had expired the black veil of rain-cloud was rolled still farther to the east, and the crescent of the young moon gleamed in the dying twilight.

It poured with rain nevertheless during the night Miriam lay and listened, thinking it would be wet and miserable on the following day.  She dropped off to sleep, and at four she rose and went to the window and opened it wide.  In streamed the fresh south-west morning air, pure, delicious, scented with all that was sweet from fields and woods, and the bearer inland even as far as Cowfold of Atlantic vitality, dissipating fogs, disinfecting poisons—­the Life-Giver.

She put on her clothes silently, went downstairs and opened the back-door.  The ever-watchful dog, hearing in his deepest slumbers the slightest noise, moved in his kennel, but recognised her at once and was still.  She called to him to follow her, and he joyfully obeyed.  He would have broken out into tumultuous barking if she had not silenced him instantly, and he was forced to content himself with leaping up at her and leaving marks of his paws all over her cloak.  Not a soul was to be seen, and