Cottage Folk

								

the water-budge that had been drawn up in its midst. The girl’s head lay
black upon the sunset, but she was not of a dark complexion—her hair was
light brown, and her skin was only tanned from exposure, an exposure to
which she had not, perhaps, always been used, for the shape that showed
beneath her thin cotton dress was slenderer than that of most
field-workers.
She stood there a moment watching the moving groups yonder, and then
passed out through the gate on to the road. As she slammed it to behind
her, a tall young woman came swinging up a path to the left, her black
locks somewhat dishevelled and her bodice loose at the throat.
“Where are ye off to so glum, Jenny?” said she. “Come and ’ave a bit of
a lark. ’Ere’s your beau a-comin’ across the field.”
The girl didn’t stop.
“’E ain’t no beau o’ mine, nor I don’t want him to be,” said she, and
walked on quickly up the road.
“Oh, Lord no, o’ course not,” called out the other after her. “Ye don’t
mind ’im lookin’ arter ye all the ’opping-time, though! But I’m sure I
don’t want to take ’im from ye if ’e means business. ’E ain’t no
beauty!”
The man lounging across the stubble-field stopped; he was still within
ear-shot, as the girl knew. Jenny faced round on her.
“Ye’ll, please, not to say that again, Mary Ann Mitcham,” said she
stiffly. “I’ve told ye Mr. Martin ain’t no beau o’ mine, and that’s all
about it.” And she strode on again beside the hedge.
The other laughed as she swung herself over the gate and ran off across
the field; and she laughed again when she met the man and he gave her no
greeting, but passed her by with a sullen expression on his face. She
was used to calling that expression on to folk’s faces, and rather
enjoyed it than otherwise. She called it up again on the face of a
slatternly woman who stood at the door of one of the straw huts further
on with a fretful baby in her arms.
“Have ye seen Jenny anywheres, Mary Ann, my dear?” asked the woman. “I
want ’er to come and ’old this child a bit for me.”
“So as you may step up to the ‘Public’ for your supper, eh, Mrs.
Barnes,” laughed the girl as she ran. “Jenny’s always too good-natured,
mindin’ yer squallin’ brats for ye. One’d think ye was ’er mother
instead of only a neighbour. But she’s somethin’ better to do to-night:
she’s a-courtin’.”
“Ye’re a rude minx, and I don’t believe it,” answered the woman tartly.
“Why, Jenny never ’as no word to say for a man. And she’d nurse a child
all day and think it a treat. Ye can’t give Jenny’s beau a name.”
“Can’t I then?” sneered the girl. “It’s Mr. Martin, that’s who her beau
is!”
The woman uttered an exclamation and stepped outside.
“Ye’re dreamin’,” she said. “He’s got somethin’ else to think of than