g her absence. The strong bony arms took
it away from the lady somewhat roughly. The woman's eyes examined the
strangers suspiciously.

"Is it your child?" asked Paul. He need not have asked the question;
it had exactly the same dark eyes as the woman, only the
child's were brighter, not dulled as yet by life's dust as the mother's
were.

The woman made no answer. It was only when the man asked once more,
"Are you the mother?" and put his hand into his pocket at the same
time, that she found it worth while to give a curt nod:

"C'est l' mi'n."[A] Her face retained its gloomy expression; there
was no movement of pride or joy.

[Footnote A: C'est le mien.]

Kate noticed it with a certain angry surprise. How indifferent the
woman was. Was she not holding the child as though it were a useless
burden? She was filled with envy, torturing envy, and at the same time
with hot anger. That woman certainly did not deserve the child. She
would have liked to have torn it out of her arms. How rough she looked,
what coarse features she had, what a hard expression. She might really
frighten anybody terribly with her black looks. But now--now her
expression brightened; ah, she had seen the piece of money Paul had
taken out of his purse.

Ugh, what a greedy expression she had now.

The fruit-picker stretched out her hand--there was a large shining
silver coin--and when it was given to her, when she held it in her hand
she drew a deep breath; her brown fingers closed round it tightly.

"Merci." A smile passed quickly across the sullen face in which the
corners of the mouth drooped morosely, her blunted expression grew
animated for a moment or two. And then she prepared to trudge away, the
shapeless bundle containing the child on one arm, the heavy pail on the
other.

They now saw for the first time how poor her skirt was; it had
patches of all colours and sizes. Dried heather and fir-needles stuck
to her matted and untidy plaits, as they hung out from the gaudily
spotted cotton handkerchief; she had an old pair of men's
hobnailed shoes on her feet. They did not know whether she was old or
young; her stout body and hanging breasts disfigured her, but that her
face had not been ugly once upon a time could still be seen. The little
one resembled her.

"You've got a pretty child," said Paul. To please his wife he
started a conversation again with this woman who was so inaccessible.
"How old is the boy?"

The fruit-picke