shelf, the straw neat in a corner; a new bundle of straw. The hurricane lamp hung on a nail. The table and chair had been put back where she had lain.
She sat down on a stool in the doorway. How still everything was! The fine rain blew very softly, filmily, but the wind made no noise. Nothing made any sound. The trees stood like powerful beings, dim, twilit, silent and alive. How alive everything was!
Night was drawing near again; she would have to go. He was avoiding her.
But suddenly he came striding into the clearing, in his black oil-skin jacket like a chauffeur, shining with wet. He glanced quickly at the hut, half-saluted, then veered aside and went on to the coops. There he crouched in silence, looking carefully at everything, then carefully shutting the hens and chicks up safe against the night.
At last he came slowly towards her. She still sat on her stool. He stood before her under the porch.
"You come then," he said, using the intonation of the dialect.
"Yes," she said, looking up at him. "You're late!"
"Ay!" he replied, looking away into the wood.
She rose slowly, drawing aside her stool.
"Did you want to come in?" she asked.
He looked down at her shrewdly.
"Won't folks be thinkin' somethink, you comin' here every night?" he said.
"Why?" She looked up at him, at a loss. "I said 'd come. Nobody knows."
"They soon will, though," he replied. "An' what then?"
She was at a loss for an answer.
"Why should they know?" she said.
"Folks always does," he said fatally.
Her lip quivered a little.
"Well I can't help it," she faltered.
"Nay," he said. "You can help it by not comin'—if yer want to," he added, in a lower tone.
"But I don't want to," she murmured.
He looked away into the wood, and was silent.
"But what when folks find out?" he asked at last. "Think about it! Think how lowered you'll feel, one of your husband's servants."
She looked up at his averted face.
