As they went into the house, Ducie gathered a few; but at the threshhold, Charlotte turned, and saw them in her hand.  A little fear and annoyance came into her face.  “You a North-country woman, Ducie,” she said, “and yet going to bring snowdrops across the doorstone?  I would not have believed such a thing of you.  Leave them outside the porch.  Be said, now.”

“It seems such a thing to think of flowers that way,—­making them signs of sorrow.”

“You know what you said about your father and the plant,—­’Death-come-quickly.’  I have heard snowdrops called ’flowers from dead-men’s dale.’  Look at them.  They are like a shrouded corpse.  They keep their heads always turned down to the grave.  It is ill-luck to bring them where there is life and love and warmth.  It will do you no harm to mind me; so be said, Ducie.  Besides, I wouldn’t pull them anyway.  There was little Grace Lewthwaite, she was always gathering the poor, innocent flowers just to fling them on the dusty road to be trodden and trampled to pieces; well, before she was twelve years old, she faded away too.  Perhaps even the prayers of mangled flowers may be heard by the merciful Creator.”

“You do give me such turns, Charlotte.”  But who ever reasons with a superstition?  Ducie simply obeyed Charlotte’s wish, and laid the pallid blooms almost remorsefully back upon the earth from which she had taken them.  A strange melancholy filled her heart; although the servants were busy all around, and everywhere she heard the good-natured laugh, the thoughtless whistle, or the songs of hearts at ease.

When she entered the houseplace she put the bright kettle on the hob, and took out her silver teapot and her best cups of lovely crown Derby.  And as she moved about in her quiet, hospitable way they began to talk of Stephen.  “Was he well?”—­“Yes, he was well, but there were things that might be better.  I thought when he went to Bradford,” continued Ducie, “that he would at least be learning something that he might be the better of in the long end; and that in a mill he would over-get his notions about sheepskins being spun into golden fleeces.  But he doesn’t seem to get any new light that way, and Up-Hill is not doing well without him.  Fold and farm are needing the master’s eye and hand; and it will be a poor lambing season for us, I think, wanting Steve.  And, deary me, Charlotte, one word from you would bring him home!”

Charlotte stooped, and lifted the tortoise-shell cat, lying on the rug at her feet.  She was not fond of cats, and she was only attentive to puss as the best means of hiding her blushes.  Ducie understood the small, womanly ruse, and waited no other answer.  “What is the matter with the squire, Charlotte?  Does he think that Stephen isn’t good enough to marry you?  I’ll not say that Latrigg evens Sandal in all things, but I will say that there are very few families that can even Latrigg.  We have been without reproach,—­good women, honest men; not afraid of any face of clay, though it wore a crown above it.”