“Nobody’s and everybody’s,” declared Lydia; “but nobody’s in the sense that you can meddle directly in it.”
“They was made for each other you might say—such a laughing thing as Medora used to be.”
“You never know who’s made for each other till they come to be fit together. And then life wears down the edges with married people most times, like it do with a new set of false teeth. Keep her good luck before Medora. Remind her, when you get a chance, how fortunate she is. Life’s gone so easy with her that she takes for granted a lot she ought to take with gratitude.”
“It’s just a passing worry I dare say,” suggested Daisy. “When she forgets herself, she’ll often laugh and chatter in the old way.”
“Well, she’s fonder of you than most, so you help her to forget herself as often as you can.”
Daisy promised to do so and the elder thanked her.
When the bell rang, they stopped work, and while some, Lydia among them, went to their baskets for dinner, most flung off their overalls, donned hats and jackets and hurried home.
As for Mrs. Trivett, she stopped in the shop, ate her meal, then produced a newspaper and read while others talked.
The day was fine and warm and many groups took their food together in the sun round about the Mill.
Outside the vat house were Jordan Kellock and Robert Life, another vatman, while the new-comer, Philander Knox, ate his dinner beside them. On a bench at hand, Medora and Ned shared the contents of their basket, and the talk ran up and down.