Adela Burton was laying the cloth for supper, and looking somewhat
severe over the process. She was usually cheerful at that hour of the
day, for it brought her husband back from his work and, thanks to Dot's
ministrations, the evening was free from toil. It was seldom, indeed,
that Adela bestirred herself to lay the cloth for any meal, for she
maintained that it was better for a girl like Dot to have plenty to do at
all times, and she herself preferred her needlework, at which she was an
adept.

No one could have called her an idle woman, but she was eminently a
selfish one. She followed her own bent, quite regardless of the desires
and inclinations of anyone else. She was the hub of her world from her
own point of view, and she was wholly incapable of recognizing any other.
Most people realized this and, as is the way of humanity, took her at her
own valuation, making allowances for her undoubted egotism. For she was
comely and had a taking manner, never troubling herself unless her own
personal convenience were threatened. She laughed a good deal, though her
sense of humour was none of the finest, and she was far too practical to
possess any imagination. In short, as she herself expressed it, she was
sensible; and, being so, she had small sympathy with her sister-in-law's
foolish sentimentalities, which she considered wholly out of place in the
everyday life at the farm.

Not that Dot ever dreamed of confiding in her. She sheltered herself
invariably behind a reserve so delicate as to be almost imperceptible to
the elder woman's blunter susceptibilities. But she could not always hide
the fineness of her inner feelings, and there were times when the two
clashed in consequence. The occasions were rare, but Adela had come to
know by experience that when they occurred, opposition on her part was of
no avail. Dot was bound to have her way when her soul was stirred to