the open window, and we listened to her calling as we drove away:
“Dunna let me clap eyes on thee again, tha ungrateful ’ussy, tha ungrateful ’ussy! Tha’ll rue it, my wench, tha’ll rue it, an’ then dunna come ter me——”
We drove out of hearing. George sat with a shut mouth, scowling. Meg wept awhile to herself, woefully. We were swinging at a good pace under the beeches of the churchyard which stood above the level of the road. Meg, having settled her hat, bent her head to the wind, too much occupied with her attire to weep. We swung round the hollow by the bog end, and rattled a short distance up the steep hill to Watnall. Then the mare walked slowly. Meg, at leisure to collect herself, exclaimed plaintively:
“Oh, I’ve only got one glove!”
She looked at the odd silk glove that lay in her lap, then peered about among her skirts.
“I must ’a left it in th’ bedroom,” she said piteously.
He laughed, and his anger suddenly vanished.
“What does it matter? You’ll do without all right.”
At the sound of his voice, she recollected, and her tears and her weeping returned.
“Nay,” he said, “don’t fret about the old woman. She’ll come round to-morrow—an’ if she doesn’t, it’s her lookout. She’s got Polly to attend to her.”
“But she’ll be that miserable——!” wept Meg.
“It’s her own fault. At any rate, don’t let it make you miserable”—he glanced to see if anyone were in sight, then he put his arm round her waist
