sat chewing it awhile in silence; David's remarks to him met with
only incoherent answers, and at last the schoolmaster got up and
with the help of his stick tottered off along the path by which he
had come. David's eyes followed the bent figure uneasily; nor did
he turn homeward till it disappeared over the brow.




CHAPTER III


Anyone opening the door of Needham Farm kitchen that night at eight
would have found the inmates at supper--a meagre supper, which
should, according to the rule of the house, have been eaten in
complete silence. Hannah Grieve, the children's aunt, and mistress
of the farm, thought it an offence to talk at meals. She had not
been so brought up.

But Louie this evening was in a state of nerves. The afternoon had
seen one of those periodical struggles between her and Hannah,
which did so much to keep life at Needham Farm from stagnating into
anything like comfort. The two combatants, however, must have taken
a certain joy in them, since they recurred with so much regularity.
Hannah had won, of course, as the grim self-importance of her
bearing amply showed. Louie had been forced to patch the
house-linen as usual, mainly by the temporary confiscation of her
Sunday hat, the one piece of decent clothing she possessed, and to
which she clung with a feverish attachment--generally, indeed,
sleeping with it beside her pillow. But, though she was beaten, she