"The sun's that fierce I must get out of it," she said.
Thereupon he took her to a little glen close at hand--a lip through which the pool sometimes overflowed in winter--and under a white-thorn they sat down together, while Margaret, looking at the golden furzes in front of her, spoke to him.
"I do believe the gorse be going brown already. Just a little gladness we get from it, then 'tis gone again, like a candle blown out."
"What a thought! You're down, I see. No use saying you're not. And of late you've been like this more than once. 'Tis for me to talk to you to-day, I think. 'Tis for me to tell you what I saw last Sunday at 'Meavy Cot,' not for you to tell me what fell out after I was gone."
"I'm cheerful enough--only wisht to spend such a long day away from David. He's to Tavistock again. He's terrible hopeful of some work there; but I hardly think he'll get it--hasn't been well enough eggicated, I fancy. Though clever enough, I'm sure."
"He don't know everything, however."
"Who does?"
"He don't know a thing or two that even I could teach him."
"Such as upholstering?"
"Just so. I upholster chairs--at least I know how to. And you upholster David's life--make it easy and comfortable and soft at the edges. But what about your life, Madge?"