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They had better have sent her to the workhouse, for she had had a hard life under her father's roof. It was not to be expected that her stepmother should love her, and the young Harmans—solid, healthy, witless boys and girls—were so unlike her that it seemed natural she should be their butt and sport. He'd lay his life she was no Harman; she came of a darker, wilder breed, belike of those Egyptians that were coming into the country. . . . She'd be happier in the hedge than in the house. . . .

But she was growing up now and would soon be married. He did not like the thought of her marrying Lambert Relph, who was nothing but a labourer. Harman had no right to mate her so low—most likely it was all a part of his psalm-singing and sin-snivelling and general Roundheadedness. She ought to have a good husband, the poor little bud—not a yokel or a Puritan, but some tight merry lad. Perhaps he could find one for her—who would do for her, now? He went over a list of names. There was Nick Lord of Peryman's Garden, and young Ned Martin of Cobbeach who soon would be looking for a wife. Or what of William Douce, John Douce's son, when he came back from France? He was a roving lad and might suit a wild, brown girl like Condemnation, though it was more likely he aimed higher. That was the trouble with most of 'em. They wouldn't stoop to a wife born out of wedlock. He'd better mate her with one of the Tuktons of Colespore—being Papists, they couldn't look high, and they too were dark and wild. . . . Thus his thoughts rambled on while his stick smote the tall weeds in the hedgerow.