Pamela looked at the exquisite, delicate stitching. The whole heart of that dead woman was woven into the diamonds and honeycombs and lattices of the wedding smock.
“Very pretty,” she said lamely again.
“I must get to Liddleshorn before ten,” Jethro cried out from the garden.
She stepped into the sun, Mansell behind her. He followed them to the gate, seeming pathetically anxious to hold on to human companionship as long as he could. A sheep-dog came running out from the barn. Pamela, who was distrustful of dogs, felt glad that she was in the cart.
“He won’t bite, bless you; he’s too old. But when he was young he was s’ savage. Missis used to set one side of the fire winter nights, and I used to set the other. And she, just for fun, used to say to me, ‘Oh, dear,’ and I used to say, ‘Oh, dear.’ You should have heard him growl. He was s’ savage you durstn’t move or speak.”
Jethro gathered the reins with an air of business.
“You must get out of this,” he advised, with curt good nature.
“I suppose I must. Yet I’d like to stop on. Yet since missis died everything’s gone to pieces. I used to get such good living—fresh butter and new-laid eggs. I can churn myself, but no one seems to care for my butter. Don’t know why; there was a great call for missis’s.”
“Well, good-by to you,” said Jethro, with masculine intolerance of his whimpering garrulity.
“Good-by and God bless you. Take care of yourselves. Come and see me again.” His bleared blue eyes were turned pleadingly on Pamela. “And, Master Jayne”—he looked from one to the other, and his shrill voice quavered childishly—“when you gets a missis may you never lose her. A man’s no good without a missis.”