Mrs Jennet’s house was only a short distance away, and stood with several other houses by the side of the main road—the last dwellings these before you reached Lake Desolate, which was about two miles further on, she told Molly. Molly learned that the men from these houses worked in the mines near by. Mrs Jennet’s husband worked there and would not be home till evening.
While Mrs Jennet was bustling about, laying the table, and frying eggs and bacon, Molly got out her map and looked to see where the mines were. They were not marked on her map at all, and Mrs Jennet explained, when Molly showed her the map, that the mines were just over the border of Molly’s square; at which Molly was rather relieved, as it had struck her that she might have to go down the mines perhaps to search for the Black Leaf. But on second thoughts she remembered—of course, the Black Leaf could only grow above ground. This incident, however, called Molly’s attention to the fact that she was nearing another border-line of her square. It stretched away to the left of the road she was soon to go along; so she would not have much country to search on that side. But there was still a large piece of country around Lake Desolate.
“Are there no more houses beyond this group?” Molly asked Mrs Jennet, as they sat down to their meal.
“No. Yes,” said Mrs Jennet. “That is, not until you’ve passed Lake Desolate. Then there are one or two sheep-farms and cottages on the ’ills. Very lonely they must be, too. There’s very few go to Lake Desolate now—the road’s so bad—and so lonely. And what’s the good of going there, there’s nothing to see but the Lake and the ’ills.... ’Ave some more bread, duckie.... And there’s all them wild birds screeching over the Lake. Ugh! Fair gives me the creeps, it does. But there—I forgot you was going there. Fancy, a bit of a girl like you! Well, well! P’r’aps you ain’t afraid of being alone though? Eh?”
Molly said she didn’t think she was.
“I’m fond of my own company when I’m with other people,” remarked Mrs Jennet. “You know what I mean—I feel a little bit lost by myself.”
Everything in Mrs Jennet’s room seemed like herself—plain and plump and loud, but nevertheless good-natured. The chubby-looking horse-hair sofa with the round large-patterned cushions reminded Molly strangely of its owner; and so did the round-backed chairs with their thick arms; even the carpet was just like Mrs Jennet would have looked if she had been a carpet. Molly began to wonder what Mr Jennet was like.
“I’ve got a photo of ’im—up there on the mantelshelf—I’ll show you,” said Mrs Jennet in reply to a question from Molly.
But even as Mrs Jennet handed the photo down, Molly felt she knew what he would be like. And she was right. He was exactly like Mrs Jennet would have been if she had been a man.
“He’s a dear old lad,” said Mrs Jennet, eyeing the photo affectionately. “I wish you could have waited to see ’im—but if you do find the old Black Leaf ’e’ll get a ’oliday I expect—every one will. My! Won’t there be celebrations! And we’ll all come down to the City and see you! ’Ave some more milk, duckie?”