“I’m not looken’ to lead no maid,” cried the badgered Archelaus, snatching the light.  “Do ’ee grudge a chap a kiss or two?  What’s the harm in kissen’?  You knew all about it when you was young, mother; you’re a nice one to talk to a chap, you are!”

With which unfilial gibe he disappeared.

Annie was one of those women who like a buffet, verbal or physical, from a man, whether he be husband, brother, or son.  She looked after Archelaus with pride.

“He be rare and like his da when he’s got the uglies,” she said; “he’ll look fine at the head o’ the table to-night, will Arch’laus.”

“Parson Boase’ll put Ishmael at the head of the table,” announced Tom carelessly, with a sly glance at his mother.  Annie whipped round at him in blank surprise, while even John-James paused in his washing-up and stood gaping over a dish.

“Gwain to put my own cheild auver my head and the head of my first-born, is ‘ee?” cried Annie.  “Eh, that passon!  Sim’me he’s lacken’ his senses!  Sim’me that when the law lets a man like that come shoven’ and meddlen’ in a woman’s house that the law’s lacken’ its senses too!”

“Don’t fret about the law,” advised Tom; “I’ve heard tell the law can be turned any way a clever chap has a mind.  I’ll see what I can do with it when I’m to Mr. Tonkin, and then perhaps we’ll all snap our fingers at Parson Boase.”

“Tom do talk a wunnerful passel o’ nonsense,” remarked John-James placidly as his brother picked up his boots and went out.  But Tom was of the truly great who can always contain themselves when there is nothing to be gained by an explosion, and he disappeared without answering.

Annie and John-James proceeded to put the finishing touches to the kitchen—­John-James doing all the real good that was done, and Annie setting things backwards and forwards in her strange aimless way.  Upstairs Vassie was tying her hair—­brushed out now into a short, crimped fluff that made her look more like an angel than ever—­with the blue ribbon; while Archelaus and Tom greased their locks with the remains of Tom’s stolen butter.  Soon Annie and John-James also went upstairs to prepare themselves for the feast, and the kitchen grew slowly dark.

Ishmael staggered across the last field with his bucket of fuel, his lean little arms aching under its weight, but his mind singing the triumphant refrain: 

“The evening’s coming, and I’m going to cry the Neck!  I’m going to cry the Neck!”

CHAPTER IV

PAGAN PASTORAL