Sophie loved the austerity of her home when she went to live in it—its earthen floor, bare walls, unvarnished furniture, the couch under the window, the curtains of unbleached linen she had hemstitched herself, the row of shining syrup-tins in which she kept tea, sugar, and coffee on shelves near the fireplace, the big earthenware jar for flowers, and a couple of jugs which Snow-Shoes had made for her and baked in an oven of his own contrivance. She had a quiet satisfaction in doing all the cleaning up and tidying to keep her house in the order she liked, so that her eyes could rest on any part of it and take pleasure from the sense of beauty in ordinary and commonplace things.
But the hut was small and its arrangements so simple that an hour or two after Potch had gone to the mines Sophie went to the shed into which he had moved her cutting-wheel, and busied herself facing and polishing the stones which some of the men brought her as usual. She knew her work pleased them. She was as skilful at showing a stone to all its advantage as any cutter on the Ridge, and nothing delighted her more than when Watty or George or one of the Crosses exclaimed with satisfaction at a piece of work she had done.
In the afternoon sometimes she went down to the New Town to talk with Maggie Grant, Mrs. Woods, or Martha. She was understudying Martha, too, when anyone was sick in the town, and needed nursing or a helping hand. Martha had her hands full when Mrs. Ted Cross's fourth baby was born. There were five babies in the township at the time, and Sophie went to Crosses' every morning to fix up the house and look after the children and Mrs. Ted before Martha arrived. When Martha found the Crosses' washing gaily flapping on the line one morning towards midday, she protested in her own vigorous fashion.
"I ain't going to have you blackleggin' on me, Mrs. Heathfield," she said. "And what's more, if I find you doin' it again, I'll tell Potch. It's all right for me to be goin' round doing other people's odd jobs; but I don't hold with you doin' 'em—so there! If folks wants babies, well, it's their look-out—and mine. But I don't see what you've got to do with it, coming round makin' your hands look anyhow."
"You just sit down, and I'll make you a cup of tea, Mother M'Cready," Sophie said by way of reply, and gently pushed Martha into the most comfortable chair in the room. "You look done up ... and you're going on to see Ella and Mrs. Inglewood, I suppose."
Martha nodded. She watched Sophie with troubled, loving eyes. She was really very tired, and glad to be able to sit and rest for a moment. It gave her a welling tenderness and gratitude to have Sophie concerned for her tiredness, and fuss about her like this. Martha was so accustomed to caring for everybody on the Ridge, and she was so strong, good-natured, and vigorous, very few people thought of her ever being weary or dispirited. But as she bustled into the kitchen, blocking out the light, Sophie saw that Martha's fat, jolly face under the shadow of her sun-hat, was not as happy-looking as usual. Sophie guessed the weariness which had overtaken her, and that she was "poorly" or "out-of-sorts," as Martha would have said herself, if she could have been made to admit such a thing.
"It's all very well to give folks a helping hand," Martha continued, "but I'm not going to have you doin' their washin' while I'm about."
Sophie put a cup of tea and slice of bread and syrup down beside her.
"There! You drink that cup of tea, and tell me what you think of it," she said.
"But, Sophie," Martha protested. "It's stone silly for you to be doing things like Cross's washing. You're not strong enough, and I won't have it."