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Weetman was just going to drive into town; he sat fuming inthe trap behind the fat bay pony.

“Bring me that whip from the passage,” he shouted; “there’snever a damn thing handy!”

Phemy appeared with the whip.”Take me with you,” she said.

“God-a-mighty! What for? I be comin’ back in an hour. They ducks want looking over and you’ve all the taties to grade.”

She stared at him irresolutely.

“And who’s to look after the house? You know it won’t lockup — the key’s lost. Get up there!”

He cracked his whip in the air as the pony dashed away.

In the summer Phemy fell sick, her arm swelled enormously. The doctor came again and again. It was blood-poisoning, caughtfrom a diseased cow that she had milked with a cut finger. Anurse arrived but Phemy knew she was doomed, and though torturedwith pain she was for once vexed and protestant. For it wasa June night, soft and nubile, with a marvellous moon; a nightingalethrew its impetuous garland into the air. She lay listeningto it, and thinking with sad pleasure of the time when Glastonburywas in prison, how grand she was in her solitude, ordering everythingfor the best and working superbly. She wanted to go onand on for evermore, though she knew she had never known peacein maidenhood or marriage. The troubled waters of the worldnever ceased to flow; in the night there was no rest — only darkness. Nothing could emerge now. She was leaving it all to Rosa Beauchamp. Glastonbury was gone out somewhere — perhaps to meetRosa in the fields. There was the nightingale, and it was verybright outside.

“Nurse,” moaned the dying girl, “what was I born into the worldat all for?”