was not much promise of any water boiling in a hurry; the tiny spark was almost lost in the big fireplace, a hearth opening into the chimney, and so constructed that a great deal more cold seemed to come down than heat went up.

The little family group stood and bent their heads in devout thanksgiving to the heavenly Father, and then the hungry lads fell to. As for Jennifer herself it seemed as if she never got her dinner at all. All her concern was to try and tempt her husband's appetite with a piece of bread and butter daintily cut; and there was for him, too, a drop of milk. Yet even her hypocrisy could not manage to keep up her happy looks on nothing.

[Pg 38]
[Pg 39]

This was Sunday: a day indeed of rest and gladness. Other days she had to be up and about early to get the little lads their breakfast; and to make them ready for school; and to set her husband by the fire. Then she herself was off with the dawn, and sometimes before, to work all day in the fields. Her rough dress was stained earth colour from head to foot; a sack was tied round the skirts which were tucked well up out of the way. A big sun-bonnet protected her more often from the bleak winds and bitter rains than from the sun. From dawn till dusk she worked for sixpence a day; and then came home thanking God right heartily for the three shillings a week. And on that Jennifer managed to feed and clothe her household, and to pay the rent and to keep up her good looks.

The fact is, Jennifer was as we have said, a philosopher, and had made a great discovery. It was certainly worthy to be set alongside of the most famous inventions; and like many of them it had the one great defect—so few knew how to use it. Jennifer had little, it is true. She was, so to speak, but a moulting bird, half starved and shivering in the dreariest and dullest of cages—that is, if you looked at what was. But Jennifer found another world, in which she had a boundless freedom and strength, and here she went soaring like an eagle right up into the sun. It was what wasn't that she made so much of.

You pitied her, and spoke mournfully about her husband, as if he were a burden and worry. But Jennifer never seemed to hear it, and certainly could not see it.

"Poor dear," she said, "I can mind the day he asked me to be his wife. I did jump. And all the maidens in the parish would have liked him. When they heard about it they all went wondering whatever he could see in a poor little plain thing like me; but none of them wondered so much as I did. I never could do enough for him when he was well, and now that I have got my chance I should be ashamed if I did not make the best of it. Poor dear, he is as much to me as ever, and more too—husband and child all in one." And she said it over tenderly to herself, "Poor dear!"

But this was Jennifer's sentiment, and her sentiments were sacred and kept mostly for home use. It was the philosopher that met you more commonly. You spoke to her pitifully of her husband's affliction, and were almost startled at the tone of her cheery voice.

"Yes, 'tis sad. But bless you, think of what might ha' been. If he was in racks of torments all day long, and me at his side doing nothing else but poulticing and trying to give him a bit of ease! Or if we was both like he is—me and he, too, a-setting by the fire and never able to do anything for each other, whatever should us have done then? Only to think of it. And there—it might ha' been; of course, it might ha' been. What a mercy!" And Jennifer lifted up her hands. "What a mercy!"

You complained of the miserable cottage. But Jennifer was ready to point out its advantages, until the tumble-down place seemed to grow quite considerate and kindly.

"Well, you see it isn't half so bad as it might be. The cracks don't let the wind blow in where we do sit to. And the rain don't drip in where we do sleep to. That would be bad. And it might ha' done; of course, it might ha' done. What a mercy!" And again Jennifer's hands were uplifted.

You began to pity her for the children's sake. But a merry laugh cut that short in a moment.

"Yes, I often think about that," laughed Jennifer, "there might ha' been fourteen of them. And, bless you, whatever should I ha' done if there had a-been fourteen!" And Jennifer lifted up her hands and laughed again, and then slapped them down upon her knees. "Fourteen of them! Why, where should us all have slept to? And think of the eating all round, and the clothes and all. Fourteen! And it might ha' been. What a mercy!"

You talked pathetically about her work in the fields—the dreariness of it and the weariness, bending with hoe from morning to night; or kneeling at the weeds till all the limbs ached. But Jennifer was more than a match for you. "Ah, that's it. That's what I always say. To think that it should be such hard work and all that, and that I should have the strength for it. Now, if I was one of them sort that is always ailin' and failin', instead of being so strong as a horse! And I might ha' been; of course, I might ha' been. What a mercy! Why, there's some as couldn't walk there and back, for 'tis sometimes three miles there and three miles back, and there's some as couldn't do it when they got there, for the weeds be terrible strong sometimes. And there's some as couldn't bear it, east wind and rain and snow. And I might ha' been one of them sort. What a mercy!"

This was Jennifer's philosophy.

Chapter III

Now it chanced one day that the little village in which Jennifer lived was stirred by the ambition of the congregation to build a new chapel. The old place was not good enough; not even large enough. A great meeting was held, and the sluggish life of the place was quickened by a sermon from a stranger in the afternoon, followed by a public tea meeting. At night stirring speeches were made and various promises given. The well-to-do and generous layman who acted as the father of a group of village chapels in the district would give fifty pounds. One of the farmers would cart the stones. Another would give the lime. Others made promises that ranged down to a pound. There the line was drawn. Those who could do less than that did not count.

Jennifer managed to get to the meeting and sat delighted at the promises of one and another, neither envying any nor even wishing that she could do some great thing.

"I will do what I can," she said, as she shook hands with the chairman at the close of the meeting.

"I am sure you will, Jennifer, your heart is good enough for anything," said he tenderly, thinking within himself how much the least gift would cost her.

The next day Jennifer was off to the fields, and as she hoed the lines of