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"Come," he said shortly—"this burden is too heavy for 'ee. Let me take some of it."

"Nay, say, Sir."

But he would not be denied. He clutched at the ends of the faggots, striving to lift them from her shoulders to his own. The result was that, suddenly tilting, her load forced her down on her knees in the lane.

"La! La! Forgive me. There, I've hurt thee, pigsnie—once again"—he remembered how he had buffeted her at Newhouse six months ago—"I'm a clumsy friend, and I must remember besides that you're a woman grown and not to be thee'd and thou'd any more. There, stand up and let me brush your gown. You're not much hurt?"

While he was speaking he had helped her to her feet, and she stood before him, not looking so pale as she had seemed in the shadows, but ripely tanned, her arms and face the same colour as the leaves on the sallows that bordered the lane.

"You're not hurt?" he repeated anxiously.

"Nay, Sir."

"Eh well, dust thy gown—your gown, Mrs. Condemnation."

He tried to make her smile, but her little face was scared and grim. While she was brushing the mud off her skirt, he tried to lift the bundle of wood to his shoulders, but to his surprise and secret humiliation and open indignation he found that he could not do so.