Lady--" she checked herself. "An' now we shall be as we should
be."

"But--but--but--" Sophie whimpered.

"An' to see you buildin' your nest so busy--pianos and books--an'
never thinkin' of a nursery!"

"No more I did." Sophie sat bolt upright, and began to laugh.

"Time enough yet." The fingers tapped thoughtfully on the broad
knee. "But--they must be strange-minded folk over yonder with
you! Have you thought to send for your mother? She dead? My dear,
my dear! Never mind! She'll be happy where she knows. 'Tis God's
work. An' we was only waitin' for it, for you've never failed in
your duty yet. It ain't your way. What did you say about my
Mary's doings?" Mrs. Cloke's face hardened as she pressed her
chin on Sophie's forehead. "If any of your girls thinks to be'ave
arbitrary now, I'll--But they won't, my dear. I'll see they do
their duty too. Be sure you'll 'ave no trouble."

When Sophie walked back across the fields heaven and earth
changed about her as on the day of old Iggulden's death. For an
instant she thought of the wide turn of the staircase, and the
new ivory-white paint that no coffin corner could scar, but
presently, the shadow passed in a pure wonder and bewilderment
that made her reel. She leaned against one of their new gates and
looked over their lands for some other stay.

"Well," she said resignedly, half aloud, "we must try to make him