The rooster had been known to fly on her shoulder and peck her neck, so that now she carried a stick or took one of the children with her when she went to feed the fowls.

“Wouldn’t you like my knife, mother?” said Archer.

Sounding at the same moment as the bell, her son’s voice mixed life and death inextricably, exhilaratingly.

“What a big knife for a small boy!” she said.  She took it to please him.  Then the rooster flew out of the hen-house, and, shouting to Archer to shut the door into the kitchen garden, Mrs. Flanders set her meal down, clucked for the hens, went bustling about the orchard, and was seen from over the way by Mrs. Cranch, who, beating her mat against the wall, held it for a moment suspended while she observed to Mrs. Page next door that Mrs. Flanders was in the orchard with the chickens.

Mrs. Page, Mrs. Cranch, and Mrs. Garfit could see Mrs. Flanders in the orchard because the orchard was a piece of Dods Hill enclosed; and Dods Hill dominated the village.  No words can exaggerate the importance of Dods Hill.  It was the earth; the world against the sky; the horizon of how many glances can best be computed by those who have lived all their lives in the same village, only leaving it once to fight in the Crimea, like old George Garfit, leaning over his garden gate smoking his pipe.  The progress of the sun was measured by it; the tint of the day laid against it to be judged.

“Now she’s going up the hill with little John,” said Mrs. Cranch to Mrs. Garfit, shaking her mat for the last time, and bustling indoors.  Opening the orchard gate, Mrs. Flanders walked to the top of Dods Hill, holding John by the hand.  Archer and Jacob ran in front or lagged behind; but they were in the Roman fortress when she came there, and shouting out what ships were to be seen in the bay.  For there was a magnificent view —­moors behind, sea in front, and the whole of Scarborough from one end to the other laid out flat like a puzzle.  Mrs. Flanders, who was growing stout, sat down in the fortress and looked about her.

The entire gamut of the view’s changes should have been known to her; its winter aspect, spring, summer and autumn; how storms came up from the sea; how the moors shuddered and brightened as the clouds went over; she should have noted the red spot where the villas were building; and the criss-cross of lines where the allotments were cut; and the diamond flash of little glass houses in the sun.  Or, if details like these escaped her, she might have let her fancy play upon the gold tint of the sea at sunset, and thought how it lapped in coins of gold upon the shingle.  Little pleasure boats shoved out into it; the black arm of the pier hoarded it up.  The whole city was pink and gold; domed; mist-wreathed; resonant; strident.  Banjoes strummed; the parade smelt of tar which stuck to the heels; goats suddenly cantered their carriages through crowds.  It was observed how well the Corporation had laid out the flower-beds.