Mrs. Robson, for all her kindness, had always been an alarming sort of person, and lately people said that she had been acting very queerly. She certainly looked queer, with her dull expressionless eyes and the lines running from her nostrils to the corners of her smiling mouth. And there was a sort of restlessness about her, as though all the time she was expecting something unpleasant to happen and yet didn't care very much if it did.
"Did 'e say that if we don't give three pund ten this harvest the men are all coming out on strike?"
"Yes, he did."
"Does 'e mean it, Mrs. Robson?" the young man asked anxiously.
"I'm afraid so. These people generally mean what they say, and he has got the men pretty well in hand."
Bert leaned forward, his clasped hands between his knees. "It means ruination for us, Mrs. Robson. There was me just getting on like. The farm well stocked up, and going to begin to put a bit on one side. If these goings on don't stop, I'll have to give up."
"I see."
"'Taint as if I was the only one, Mrs. Robson. There's others, like Andersons of Stowall, and Baines on the Glebe Farm. It's all very well for yon big farmers, like you and Willerbys at High Wold. But what shall we do? We can't pay high wages."
"What do you want me to do?" Mary raised unsmiling eyes to Bert's crimson face.
He moved uneasily in the arm-chair, summoning his courage.