Lashmar for all that."

"Lord! What's a hundred years?" said Whybarne, who had seen
seventy-eight of them.

"An' they write too, from yonder--my uncle's woman writes--that you can
still tell 'em by headmark. Their hair's foxy-red still--an' they throw
out when they walk. He's in-toed-treads like a gipsy; but you watch, an'
you'll see 'er throw, out--like a colt."

"Your trace wants taking up." Pinky's large ears had caught the sound
of voices, and as the two broke through the laurels the men were hard at
work, their eyes on Sophie's feet.

She had been less fortunate in her inquiries than Iggulden, for her Aunt
Sydney of Meriden (a badged and certificated Daughter of the Revolution
to boot) answered her inquiries with a two-paged discourse on
patriotism, the leaflets of a Village Improvement Society, of which she
was president, and a demand for an overdue subscription to a Factory
Girls' Reading Circle. Sophie burned it all in the Orpheus and Eurydice
grate, and kept her own counsel.

"What I want to know," said George, when Spring was coming, and the
gardens needed thought, "is who will ever pay me for my labour? I've put
in at least half a million dollars' worth already."

"Sure you're not taking too much out of yourself?" his wife asked.

"Oh, no; I haven't been conscious of myself all winter." He looked at
his brown English gaiters and smiled. "It's all behind me now. I believe
I could sit down and think of all that--those months before we sailed."

"Don't--ah, don't!" she cried.

"But I must go back one day. You don't want to keep me out of business
always--or do you?" He ended with a nervous laugh.

Sophie sighed as she drew her own ground-ash (of old Iggulden's cutting)
from the hall rack.

"Aren't you overdoing it too? You look a little tired," he said.

"You make me tired. I'm going to Rocketts to see Mrs. Cloke about Mary."
(This was the sister of the telegraphist, promoted to be sewing-maid at
Pardons.) "Coming?"

"I'm due at Burnt House to see about the new well. By the way, there's a
sore throat at Gale Anstey--"

"That's my province. Don't interfere. The Whybarne children always have
sore throats. They do it for jujubes."

"Keep away from Gale Anstey till I make sure, honey. Cloke ought to have
told me."

"These people don't tell. Haven't you learnt that yet? But I'll obey, me
lord. See you later!"

She set off afoot, for within the three main roads that bounded the
blunt triangle of