dressed while I wash up,” he said.

She did so. He washed the pots, straightened, and then took her boots. They were quite clean. Mrs. Morel was one of those naturally exquisite people who can walk in mud without dirtying their shoes. But Paul had to clean them for her. They were kid boots at eight shillings a pair. He, however, thought them the most dainty boots in the world, and he cleaned them with as much reverence as if they had been flowers.

Suddenly she appeared in the inner doorway rather shyly. She had got a new cotton blouse on. Paul jumped up and went forward.

“Oh, my stars!” he exclaimed. “What a bobby-dazzler!”cs

She sniffed in a little haughty way, and put her head up.

“It’s not a bobby-dazzler at all!” she replied. “It’s very quiet.”

She walked forward, whilst he hovered round her.

“Well,” she asked, quite shy, but pretending to be high and mighty, “do you like it?”

“Awfully! You are a fine little woman to go jaunting out with!”

He went and surveyed her from the back.

“Well,” he said, “if I was walking down the street behind you, I should say: ‘Doesn’t that little person fancy herself!’ ”

“Well, she doesn’t,” replied Mrs. Morel. “She’s not sure it suits her.”

“Oh no! she wants to be in dirty black, looking as if she was wrapped in burnt paper. It does suit you, and I say you look nice.”

She sniffed in her little way, pleased, but pretending to know better.

“Well,” she said, “it’s cost me just three shillings. You couldn’t have got it ready-made for that price, could you?”

“I should think you couldn’t,” he replied.

“And, you know, it’s good stuff.”

“Awfully pretty,” he said.

The blouse was white, with a little sprig of heliotrope and black.

“Too young for me, though, I’m afraid,” she said.

“Too young for you!” he exclaimed in disgust. “Why don’t you buy some false white hair and stick it on your head.”

“I s’ll soon have no need,” she replied. “I’m going white fast enough.”

“Well, you’ve no business to,” he said. “What do I want with a white-haired mother?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with one, my lad,” she said rather strangely.

They set off in great style, she carrying the umbrella William had given her, because of the sun. Paul was considerably taller than she, though he was not big. He fancied himself.

On the fallow land the young wheat shone silkily. Minton pit waved its plumes of white steam, coughed, and rattled hoarsely.

“Now look at that!” said Mrs. Morel. Mother and son stood on the road to watch. Along the ridge of the great pit-hill crawled a little group in silhouette against the sky, a horse, a small truck, and a man. They climbed the incline against the heavens. At the end the man tipped the wagon. There was an undue rattle as the waste fell down the sheer slope of the enormous bank.

“You sit a minute, mother,” he said, and she took a seat on a bank, whilst he sketched rapidly. She was silent whilst he worked, looking round at the afternoon, the red cottages shining among their greenness.

“The world is a wonderful place,” she said, “and wonderfully beautiful.”

“And so’s the pit,” he said. “Look how it heaps together, like something alive almost—a big creature that you don’t know.”

“Yes,” she said. “Perhaps!”

“And all the trucks standing waiting, like a string of beasts to be fed,” he said.

“And very thankful I am they are standing,” she said, “for that means they’ll turn middling time this week.”

“But I like the feel of men on things, while they’re alive. There’s a feel of men about trucks, because they’ve been handled with men’s hands, all of them.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Morel.

They went along under the trees of the highroad. He was constantly informing her, but she was interested. They passed the end of Nethermere, that was tossing its sunshine like petals lightly in its lap. Then they turned on a private road, and in some trepidation approached a big farm. A dog barked furiously. A woman came out to see.

“Is this the way to Willey Farm?” Mrs. Morel asked.

Paul hung behind in terror of being sent back. But the woman was amiable, and directed them. The mother and son went through the wheat and oats, over a little bridge into a wild meadow. Peewits, with their white breasts glistening, wheeled and screamed about them. The lake was still and blue. High overhead a heron floated. Opposite, the wood heaped on the hill, green and still.

“It’s a wild road, mother,” said