"He's doin' more'n that."
Sabina's voice was still languid, but she showed a little interest. "What's ah doin' then?"
"A cart come over from Wadebridge o' Thursday piled up wi' boxes and bags. Now just let me turn this heel."
"Boxes and bags?" murmured the wife. "Good gracious! What's ah going to do with that?"
After a few seconds given to her work, Mrs. Tom looked up. "He's teelin' the li'l medder wi' sugar-beet."
The other's mind, dulled by suffering and loss of blood, took time to grasp the significance of this statement. "Sugar-beet?" she said, slowly, "but I'm goin' to 'ave the li'l medder teeled wi' dredge-corn."
"You bain't there to give the orders."
Sabina's lips took a firmer line. "I won't 'av it teeled wi' that new-fangled traäde. You tell'n so."
"Better tell'n yourself; I reckon—" She glanced shrewdly at her friend, for Sabina's unexpected illness had put new thoughts into Mrs. Tom's head. She was not greedy, but the most self-effacing creature will scheme a little for its young. "I reckon he'd do far different if you wasn't 'ere."
"You think so?" Sabina shut her eyes the better to realize the situation. The news had been stimulating, and when she spoke again her voice was stronger. "I don't think as I'm goin' round land this time, Isolda."