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Ruth's only objection to this plan was that she had no clothes for them.

"Housewives ull reckon on their having three gowns and six shifts apiece, and how are we to run to that, Master? and how am I to make them, all mussed up as I am wud young children and cooking and washing fur us all, and heavy besides, and this sickness that comes. . . ." Two tears rolled down her thin cheeks.

Adam was sorry. He put his clumsy, earth-smelling arms round her and tried to comfort her. It seemed scarcely possible that only eight or nine years ago she had been young and lovely, with a round dark mouth like a damson and hair as thick and sweet-scented as hay. He had not, of course, expected her never to change—in every cottage a woman changed from youth to middle-age in the first ten years of married life. But Ruth looked ill and old—she had suffered even more than was the common lot of women. He was sorry for her—in that one moment, achingly sorry. But he did not know what he could do. He had only nine shillings a week, with his fuel and his cottage; there were no friends more prosperous than himself to whom he could turn, and the common sources of village charity had run dry. The children had come in quick succession—would probably for some time go on coming; but he could do nothing about that. That was nature.