face. She looked so different in her checked ulster and green velvet hat that she seemed a stranger. Hugh's well-knit figure was clad in a decent blue serge suit, and he wore a cloth cap, well pulled down. He smoked continuously, as though to brace himself, not even relinquishing his "fag," when Derek handed him his cheque.
"I'm sorry to part with you this way, Hugh," said Derek.
"Ay," muttered Hugh, and turned away.
He got into the waggon and sat on one of the boxes, while Phœbe settled herself with Snailem on the seat.
The cows left the shore meadow where they had been pastured, and slowly descended the bank of the stream, which now trickled thinly over its chalky bed, forming little transparent pools, and nourishing shiny clumps of coarse watercress. It was past the hour for milking, and the cows lowed protestingly as they splashed across the stream. Phœbe had always been most prompt about the milking. Now Vale let down the bars and opened the door of the byre. He could not understand Snailem's lateness. He made up his mind that if Snailem came home the worse for liquor he would be very sharp with him. Probably threaten to dismiss him.
He had adjusted the chains, and watered the cows, when he heard a horse tramping into the stable. A moment later a man entered the byre, a pitchfork in his hand. It was old Peek.
"Where is Snailem?" asked Derek, suspiciously.
Peek came close to him and said with a wavering grin: "He's gone. Gone for good, with them others. He said he couldn't stand the thought of Grimstone without Phœbe, and he didn't fancy a winter in the country anyways. I happened to be at the station when he was getting his
