A faint flush swept up Barbara's face.
"He's dust," she replied, "and he's going back to the dust he came from, like a little cloud raised by the wind. What has he ever had in life to make him want to live?"
Lucy sank back upon her pillows, and clasped her hands behind her head. It was not often that Barbara spoke bitterly.
"And you!" she said. "You've never a chance, either. You might be a man for the work you do."
"I was meant for a man when I was made so tall and strong," answered the girl, with a note of pride in her voice and a straightening of her figure.
"Nay, nay, there's not a man in the dale, nor in the country round, that can hold a candle to thee."
"Then I's neither fish, flesh nor fowl, for there's not a woman as tall or strong, unless it be yon great creature we saw at the show."
Lucy gazed at her sister with critical eyes.
"You'll look finely, like a queen, when you get the crown Old Camomile promised thee, the day he told your stars," she said.
Barbara moved towards the door, carrying her clogs in her hand.