to London for the first night of a friend's play, and was staying till
Friday morning. She missed him very much--he used to come to Ansdore
every day, sometimes more than once, and they always had at least one
meal together. She brooded about him too, for she could not rid herself
of the thought that she had failed him in her refusal to be married
before the shearing. He was disappointed--he could not understand....

She looked round on Ansdore almost distrustfully ... was it true that
she loved it too much? The farm looked very lonely and bare, with the
mist hanging in the doorways, and the rain hissing into the midden,
while the bush--as the trees were called which sheltered nearly every
marsh dwelling--sighed and tossed above the barn-roofs. She suddenly
realized that she did not love it as much as she used.

The knowledge came like a slap. She suddenly knew that for the last four
months her love for Martin had been eating into her love for Ansdore....
It was like the sun shining on a fire and putting it out--now that the
sun had gone she saw that her hearth was cold. It was for Martin she
had sown her spring wheat, for Martin she had broken up twelve acres of
pasture by the Kent Ditch, for Martin she would shear her sheep and cut
her hay....

Then since it was all for Martin, what an owl she was to sacrifice him
to it, to put it before his wants and needs. He wanted her, he needed
her, and she was offering him bales of wool and cocks of hay. Of course
in this matter she was right and he was wrong--it would be much better
to wait just a week or two till after the shearing and the
hay-making--but for the first time Joanna saw that even right could
surrender. Even though she was right, she could give way to him, bend
her will to his. After all, nothing really mattered except his love, his
good favour--better that she should muddle her shearing and her crops
than the first significant weeks of their married life. He should put
his dear foot upon her neck--for the last of her pride was gone in that
discovery of the dripping day, the discovery that her plans, her
ambitions, her life, herself, had their worth only in the knowledge that
they belonged to him.

It was on Thursday afternoon that Joanna finally beat Ansdore out of her
love. She cried a little, for she wished that it had happened earlier,
before Martin went away. Still, it was his going that had shown her at
last clearly where she belonged. She thought of w