And she began a scene between the two of them, so exact in voice and manner that it seemed to us as if there were really two folk before us:  the stern old mother with her hand up like an ear-trumpet, and her flouncing, bouncing daughter.  Her great figure danced about with a wonderful lightness, and she tossed her head and pouted her lips as she answered back to the old, bent figure that addressed her.  Jim and I had forgotten our tears, and were holding our ribs before she came to the end of it.

“That is better,” said she, smiling at our laughter.  “I would not have you go back to Friar’s Oak with long faces, or maybe they would not let you come to me again.”

She vanished into her cupboard, and came out with a bottle and glass, which she placed upon the table.

“You are too young for strong waters,” she said, “but this talking gives one a dryness, and—­”

Then it was that Boy Jim did a wonderful thing.  He rose from his chair, and he laid his hand upon the bottle.

“Don’t!” said he.

She looked him in the face, and I can still see those black eyes of hers softening before the gaze.

“Am I to have none?”

“Please, don’t.”

With a quick movement she wrested the bottle out of his hand and raised it up so that for a moment it entered my head that she was about to drink it off.  Then she flung it through the open lattice, and we heard the crash of it on the path outside.

“There, Jim!” said she; “does that satisfy you?  It’s long since any one cared whether I drank or no.”

“You are too good and kind for that,” said he.

“Good!” she cried.  “Well, I love that you should think me so.  And it would make you happier if I kept from the brandy, Jim?  Well, then, I’ll make you a promise, if you’ll make me one in return.”

“What’s that, miss?”

“No drop shall pass my lips, Jim, if you will swear, wet or shine, blow or snow, to come up here twice in every week, that I may see you and speak with you, for, indeed, there are times when I am very lonesome.”

So the promise was made, and very faithfully did Jim keep it, for many a time when I have wanted him to go fishing or rabbit-snaring, he has remembered that it was his day for Miss Hinton, and has tramped off to Anstey Cross.  At first I think that she found her share of the bargain hard to keep, and I have seen Jim come back with a black face on him, as if things were going amiss.  But after a time the fight was won—­as all fights are won if one does but fight long enough—­and in the year before my father came back Miss Hinton had become another woman.  And it was not her ways only, but herself as well, for from being the person that I have described, she became in one twelve-month as fine a looking lady as there was in the whole country-side.  Jim was prouder of it by far than of anything he had had a hand in in his life, but it was only to me that he ever spoke about it, for he had that tenderness towards her that one has for those whom one has helped.  And she helped him also, for by her talk of the world and of what she had seen, she took his mind away from the Sussex country-side and prepared it for a broader life beyond.  So matters stood between them at the time when peace was made and my father came home from the sea.