"'Twas my idea—I would have it," answered Philip.
"Mary's prettier, however. Better you hadn't interfered. But there'll be plenty of others. A long family they'll get, mark me. Don't you talk no more. I'm three parts dead to-night, and I wish you hadn't woke me."
He felt a wound and sighed. He had expected a little praise.
Sarah Jane was among the first who came to visit the new mother. She said many kind things of the child, spent an hour with secret thoughts in the house where Hilary Woodrow had lived, and then departed homeward again.
The day was stern and fresh. Easterly winds blew over the cradle of the New Year, and February had not thus far emptied her usual libation upon the earth. The Moor slept in the colours of mourning, and the wind seemed to bite into the very granite and shrivel up the humble life that dwelt thereon. Hazes hid the horizon, but the adjacent hills stood darkly out, clean-cut against the steel-grey sky. Lyd shrilled along her ways and beside the water a carrion crow or two sat with feathers puffed out. They rose heavily as Sarah Jane approached to cross the stepping-stones. Then, under Doe Tor, a man met her. He was riding a rough horse and bound for home; but now he stopped, and turned, and went back a part of the way to Ruddyford beside her.
"I've just been seeing Mary," she said. "I'm sure you're very fortunate. Nobody never had a braver li'l one."
"How are you?" he asked. "Why, 'tis six months since I've seed 'e—to speak to—or more."
"Very well, thank you."
"And your man and your youngster?"
"Well as possible."