The legend of the seventh virgin

1

Two days after the bones of the walled-up nun were found in St. Larnston Abbas, the five of us were together. There were Justin and Johnny St. Larnston, Mellyora Martin, Dick Kimber and myself, Kerensa Carlee — with as grand a name as any of them, for all that I lived in a cob-walled cottage and they were the gentry.

The Abbas had belonged to the St. Larnstons for centuries; and before they had owned it, it had been a convent. Impressive, built naturally of Cornish stone, its battlemented towers were pure Norman; it had been restored here and there and one wing was obviously Tudor. I had never been inside the house at that time but I knew the surrounding district very well; and it was not the house which was unique, for, interesting as it was, there were many more in England—and even Cornwall—as interesting and as antiquated. It was the Six Virgins who made St. Larnston Abbas different from all the others.

The Six Virgins was the name by which the stones were known. If the legend could be believed they were misnamed because, according to that, they were six women who precisely because they had ceased to be virgins had been turned into stones. Mellyora's father, the Reverend Charles Martin, whose hobby was delving into the past, called them the menhirs — "men" being the Cornish word for stone and "hir' for long.

The story about there having been seven virgins came from the Reverend Charles, too. His great-grandfather had had the same hobby, and one day the Reverend Charles found some notes which had been tucked away in an old trunk and among these was the story of the Seventh Virgin. He had had it printed in the local paper. It made quite a stir in St. Larnston, and people who before had never bothered to glance at the stones, then went to stare at them.

The story was that six novices and a nun had ceased to be virgins and the novices were driven from the convent. As they left they danced in the nearby meadow to show their defiance and because of this were turned into stones. In those days it was believed that good luck was brought to a place if a living person was what they called "walled-up," which meant putting that person into a space in the wall and building round her, leaving her to die. The nun, having sinned more deeply than the others, was condemned to be walled-up.

The Reverend Charles said the story was nonsense; the stones must have been in the meadow years before the convent was built for, according to him, they were older than Christianity. He pointed out that there were similar ones all over Cornwall and at Stonehenge; but the people of St. Larnston liked the story of the Virgins best, so that was the one they made up their minds to believe.

They had been believing it for some time when one of the oldest of the Abbas walls collapsed and Sir Justin St. Larnston ordered that it should be immediately repaired.

Reuben Pengaster was working on the spot at the moment when the hollowed wall was exposed and he swore he saw a woman standing there.

"She was there one second," he insisted. "Like a nightmare she were. Then she were gone and there was nothing but dust and they old bones."

Some said that was the start of Reuben's being what was called in Cornwall piskey-mazed. He wasn't mad but he wasn't quite like other people. He was slightly different from the rest of us, as though, it were said, he'd been caught by the piskeys one dark night, and having become piskey-mazed had stayed like that.

"He looked on what weren't intended for human eyes," they said. "It's made him piskey-mazed."

But there were bones in that wall, and it was said by experts that they had belonged to a young woman. There was fresh interest in the Abbas, just as there had been when the Reverend Charles had had his piece printed in the paper about his menhirs. People wanted to see the spot where the bones had been found. I was one who wanted to see.

The day was hot and I left the cottage soon after midday. We had had a bowl of quillet each—Joe, Granny Bee, and myself—and for anyone not Cornish who doesn't know what quillet is, it's peas made into a sort of porridge. It was used a great deal in Cornwall during the hungry times because it was cheap and sustaining.

Of course they wouldn't have quillet at the Abbas, I was thinking as I went along. They would be eating roast pheasant off gold plates; they would be drinking wine out of silver tankards.

I knew very little of how the quality ate, but my imagination was vivid; and I could clearly see the picture of the St. Larnstons at their table. In those days I was continually comparing my life with theirs; and the comparison angered me.

I was twelve years old, black-haired and black-eyed; and although I was very thin, there was something about me which was already causing men to look twice at me. I did not know very much about myself, not at that time being given to self-analysis, but there was one characteristic of which I was aware even then: I was proud—with that sort of pride which is one of the seven deadly sins. I walked in a bold and haughty way as though I wasn't one of the cottage people but belonged to a family like the St. Larnstons.

Our cottage stood apart from the others in a small copse, and I felt that made us apart, although ours was exactly the same as the others; it was merely a rectangle with walls of whitewashed cob and a thatched roof-about as primitive as a dwelling could be. Still, I was constantly assuring myself, ours was different, just as we were different. Everyone would admit that Granny Bee was different; and so was I with my pride; as for Joe, whether he liked it or not he was going to be different, too. I was determined to see to that.

I ran out of our cottage, past the church, and the doctor's house, through the kissing gate and across the field which was a short cut to the Abbas drive. This drive was three quarters of a mile long and there were lodge gates at the end; but coming this way and scrambling through a hedge I struck the drive close to where it opened onto the lawns which stood in front of the house.

I paused, looking about me, listening to the rustle of insects in the long grass of the meadow. Some distance away I could see the roof of the Dower House where Dick Kimber lived and briefly I envied him for living in such a fine house. I felt my heartbeats quicken because very soon I should be on forbidden ground—a trespasser—and Sir Justin was hard on trespassers, particularly in his woods. I'm only twelve, I said to myself. They couldn't do much to a child!

Couldn't they? Jack Toms had been caught with a pheasant in his pocket and it had been transportation for him. Seven long years in Botany Bay—and he was still serving them. He had been eleven when he was caught.

But I was not interested in pheasants. I was doing no harm; and they said Sir Justin was more lenient with girls than boys.

Now I could see the house through the trees and I stood still, disturbed by my unaccountable emotion. It was a grand sight, with its Norman towers and mullioned windows; the stone carvings were more impressive, it seemed to me, because after hundreds of years the noses of griffins and dragons had become blunted.

The lawn sloped gently down to the gravel path round the house. This was the exciting view because on one side was the lawn divided only by a box hedge from the meadow in which were the Six Virgins. Seen from a distance they did look like young women. I could imagine how they would appear at night—in starlight, say, or by the light of a crescent moon. I made up my mind to come and look at them one night. Close by the Virgins, incongruously, was the old tin mine. Perhaps it was the mine which made this such a startling sight, for the old balance box and beam winding engine were still there and one could go right up to the shaft and look down into the darkness below.

Why, it had been asked, did the St. Larnstons not have all evidence that there had once been a mine there, removed? What purpose did it serve? It was unsightly, and something like sacrilege to leave it there beside the legendary stones. But there was a reason. One of the St. Larnstons had gambled so heavily that he had become almost bankrupt and would have been forced to sell the Abbas if tin had not been discovered on his estate. So the mine was worked, although the St. Larnstons had hated the fact that it had to be within sight of their mansion; and down into the earth the tinners had burrowed, working with their crooks and pokers, picking out the tin which was to save the Abbas for the family.

But once the house was saved, the St. Larnstons, hating the mine, had closed it There had been hardship in the district, so Granny told me, when the mine was closed; but Sir Justin didn't mind that. He didn't care about other people; he was all for himself. Granny Bee said that the St. Larnstons had left the mine as it was to remind the family of the rich tin underground to which they could turn in times of need.

The Cornish are a superstitious race—the rich no less than the poor— and I believe that the St. Larnstons looked on the mine as a symbol of prosperity; while there was tin in their land they were safe from financial disaster. There was a rumor in existence that the mine was nothing but an old scat bal—a disused mine—and some of the old men said they remembered their fathers saying that the lode was running out when it closed. The rumor persisted that the St. Larnstons had known this and had closed down the mine because it had nothing more to offer; but they liked to be thought richer than they were, for in Cornwall tin meant money.

Whatever the reason. Sir Justin did not wish the mine to be worked and that was the end of it.

He was a man both hated and feared in the country; on the occasions when I had seen him riding on his great white horse or striding along with a gun on his shoulder, I had thought of him as a kind of ogre. I had heard tales about him from Granny Bee and I knew he considered that everything in St. Larnston belonged to him, which might have some truth in it; but he also believed that the people of St. Larnston belonged to him, too— and that was a different matter; and although he dared not practice the old seignioral rights, he had seduced a number of the girls. Granny Bee was always warning me to keep out of his way.

I turned into the meadow so that I could go close to the Six Virgins. I paused beside them and leaned against one of them. They were arranged in a circle looking exactly as though they had been caught swaying in a dance. They were of various heights—just as six women would be; two were very tall and the others were the sizes of fully grown women. Standing there in the stillness of a hot afternoon, I could believe that I was one of those poor virgins. I could well imagine that I should have been as sinful and having sinned and been found out I should have danced my defiance on the grass.

I touched the cold stone gently and I could have deceived myself quite easily that one of them bent towards me as though she recognized my sympathy and the bond between us.

Crazy thoughts I had; it was because I was Granny Bee's granddaughter.

Now was the dangerous part. I had to run across the lawns where I might be seen from one of the windows. I seemed to fly through the air until I was so close to the gray walls of the house I knew where to find the wall. I knew too that the workmen would be sitting in a field some distance from the house eating their hunks of bread, all brown and crusty, baked that morning on the open hearth; we called them manshuns in these parts. Perhaps they would have a little cheese and some pilchards or, if they were lucky, a pasty which they would have brought from home wrapped in their red handkerchiefs.

Making my way cautiously round the house I came to a small gate leading into a walled garden; on these walls peaches grew; there were roses, too, and the smell was wonderful. This was trespassing proper, but I was determined to see where those bones had been found.

On the far side propped against a wall was a wheelbarrow; there were bricks on the ground with the workmen's tools, so I knew I was in the right place.

I ran over and peered through the hole in the wall. Inside it was hollow, like a little chamber, about seven feet high and six feet wide. It was clear that the thick old wall had been deliberately left hollow; and studying it I was certain then that the story of the seventh virgin was a true one.

I longed to stand in the spot where that girl had stood, and to know what it felt like to be shut in, so I scrambled through the hole, grazing my knee as I did so for it was some three feet from the ground. Once inside the wall, I moved away from the hole, turning my back to the light and tried to imagine what she must have felt when they forced her to stand where I was standing now, knowing that they were going to wall her up and leave her for the remainder of her short life in utter darkness. I could understand her horror and despair.

There was a smell of decay about me. A smell of death, I told myself, and so strong was my imagination that in those seconds I really believed I was the seventh virgin, that I had extravagantly cast away my chastity and was doomed to frightful death; I was saying to myself: "I would do it again."

I should have been too proud to show my terror, and I hoped she, too, had been for although pride was a sin, it was a solace. It prevented your demeaning yourself.

I was brought back into my own century by the sound of voices.

"I do want to see it." I knew that voice. It belonged to Mellyora Martin, the parson's daughter. I despised her, for her neat gingham dresses which were never dirty, her long white stockings and black shiny shoes with straps and buckles. I should have liked to possess shoes like that but, because I couldn't, I deluded myself into the belief that I despised them. She was twelve years old, the same age as I was. I had seen her at one of the parsonage windows, bent over a book or sitting in the garden under the lime tree with her governess reading aloud or sewing. Poor prisoner! I said then, and I was angry because at that time I wanted more than anything in the world to be able to read and write; I had a notion that it was the ability to read and write, more than fine clothes and manners that made people equal with one another. Her hair was what some would call gold but which I called yellow; her eyes were blue and big; her skin white and delicately tinted. I called her Melly to myself, just to rob her of a little dignity. Mellyora! It sounded so pretty when people said it. But my name was as interesting. Kerensa the Cornish for Peace and Love, Granny Bee told me. I have never heard that Mellyora meant anything.

"You'll make yourself dirty." That was Johnny St. Larnston speaking.

Now I shall be found out, I thought, and by a St. Larnston. But it was only Johnny who, it was said, would be like his father in one respect and one only—that was as far as women were concerned. Johnny was fourteen. I had seen him sometimes with his father, a gun on his shoulder, because all the St. Larnstons were brought up to hunt and shoot. Johnny was not much taller than I, for I was tall for my age; he was fair although not as fair as Mellyora and he didn't look like a St. Larnston. I was glad it was only Johnny and Mellyora.

"I shan't mind. Johnny, do you really believe the story?"

"Of course."

"That poor woman! To be shut up ... alive!"

"Hello!" A different voice this. "You children, come away from the wall."

"We're looking to see where they found the nun," said Johnny,

"Nonsense. There's absolutely no evidence that it was a nun. It's just a legend."

I crouched as far from the hole as I could while I wondered whether I ought to dash out and run. I remembered that it would not be easy to scramble out of the hole and they would almost certainly catch me—particularly now that the others had come.

Mellyora was looking in through the hole and it took a second or so for her eyes to become adjusted to the dimness; then she gasped. I was certain that in those few seconds she thought I was the ghost of the seventh virgin.

"Why ..." she began. "She ..."

Johnny's head came through. There was a brief silence; then he murmured: "It's only one of the cottage children."

"Be careful there! It might not be safe." I knew the voice now. It belonged to Justin St. Larnston—heir to the estate—no longer a boy, but a man, home from the University on vacation.

"But I tell you there's someone in there," Johnny replied.

"Don't tell me the lady's still there"

Yet another voice, and one I knew as that of Dick Kimber who lived in the Dower House and was at Oxford with young Justin.

"Come and see for yourself," called Johnny.

I was crouching closer to the wall. I didn't know what I hated most— the fact that I was caught or the way they looked on me—"one of the cottage children!" How dared he!

Another face was looking in on me; it was brown, crowned by untidy dark hair; the brown eyes were laughing.

"Not the virgin," commented Dick Kimber.

"Does she look like it, Kim?" said Johnny.

Now Justin pushed them aside to look in. He was very tall and thin; his eyes were serene, his voice calm.

"Who is it?" he said.

"It's not an 'it," I replied. "It's a Miss Kerensa Carlee."

"You are a child from the cottages," he said. "You've no right to be here, but come out now."

I hesitated, not knowing what he intended to do. I pictured him taking me to the house and accusing me of trespassing. Also I did not want to stand before them in my scanty Holland smock which was becoming too small for me; my feet were well shaped though brown, but I had no shoes and they would be grimy. I washed them in the stream every night because I was very anxious to keep myself as clean as the gentry but, having no shoes to protect them, they were always dirty by the end of the day.

"What's the matter?" demanded Dick Kimber, whom they called Kim. I should always think of him as Kim in future. "Why don't you come out?"

"Go away," I retorted, "and I will."

He was about to step into the hollow when Justin warned; "Careful, Kim. You might bring the entire wall down."

Kim remained where he was. "What did you say your name was?" he asked.

"Kerensa Carlee."

"Very grand. But you'd better come out."

"Go away."

"Ding ding bell," sang Johnny, "Kerensa's in the well."

"Who put her in?" continued Kim. "Was it due to sin?"

They were laughing at me, and as I stepped out of the hole preparing to run, they made a circle round me. In half a second I thought of the circle of stones and it was as uncanny a feeling as that which I had experienced in the wall.

They must have been noticing the difference between us. My hair was so black that it had a blue sheen in it; my eyes were big and they looked enormous in my small face; my skin was smooth and olive. They were so neat and civilized, all of them; even Kim with his untidy hair and laughing eyes.

Mellyora's blue ones were troubled and in that moment I knew I had underrated her. She was soft but she wasn't silly; she knew far better than the others did, how I felt.

"There's nothing to be afraid of, Kerensa," she said.

"Oh, isn't there!" contradicted Johnny. "Miss Kerensa Carlee is guilty of trespassing. She's been caught in the act. We must think up a punishment for her."

He was teasing, of course. He wasn't going to hurt me; he had noticed my long black hair and I saw his eyes on the bare skin of my shoulder where it showed through my torn smock.

Kim said: "It isn't only cats who die of curiosity."

"Do be careful," ordered Justin. He turned to me. "You've been very silly. Don't you know that scrambling about a wall that has just collapsed could be dangerous? Moreover, what are you doing here?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Now get out ... the faster the better."

I hated them all—Justin for his coldness, and talking to me as though I was no different from the people who lived in the cottages on his father's estates, Johnny and Kim for their teasing, and Mellyora because she knew how I felt and was sorry for me.

I ran, but when I came to the door of the walled garden and was at a safe distance from them, I stopped and looked back at them.

They were still standing in a semicircle watching me. Mellyora was the one I had to stare at; she looked so concerned—and her concern was for me.

I put out my tongue; I heard Johnny and Kim laughing. Then I turned my back on them and sped away.

Granny Bee was sitting outside the cottage when I reached home; she often sat in the sun, her stool propped up against the wall, her pipe in her mouth; her eyes half closed as she smiled to herself.

I threw myself down beside her and told her what had happened. She rested her hand on my head as I talked; she liked to stroke my hair which was like her own, for although she was an old woman her hair was thick and black. She took great care of it, sometimes wearing it in two thick plaits, at others piling it high in coils. People said that it wasn't natural for a woman of her age to have hair like that; and Granny Bee liked them to say it. She was proud of her hair, yes, but it was more than that; it was a symbol. Like Samson's, I used to tell her, and she would laugh. I knew that she brewed a special preparation which she brushed in every night and she would sit for five minutes massaging her head. No one knew what she did except Joe and me, and Joe didn't notice; he was always too busy with some bird or animal; but I would sit and watch her do her hair and she used to say to me, "I'll tell you how to keep your hair, Kerensa; then you'll have a head of hair like mine till the day you die." But she hadn't told me as yet. "All in good time," she added. "And if I was to be took sudden, you'd find the receipt in the corner cupboard."

Granny Bee loved Joe and me and it was a wonderful thing to be loved by her; but what was more wonderful still was to know that I was the first with her always. Joe was like a little pet; we loved him in a protective sort of way; but between Granny and me there was a closeness which we both knew about and were glad of.

She was a wise woman; I don't mean merely that she had good sense; but she was known for miles round for her special powers and people of all sorts came to see her. She could cure them of their ailments and they trusted her more than they did the doctor. The cottage was filled with smells which changed from day to day, according to the remedies which were being brewed. I was learning what herbs to gather in the woods and fields and what they would cure. She was also believed to have special powers which enabled her to see into the future; I asked her to teach me, too, but she said it was something you taught yourself by keeping your eyes and ears open, and learning about people—for human nature was the same all the world over; there was so much bad in the good and so much good in the bad, that it was all a matter of weighing up how much good or bad had been allotted to each one. If you knew your people you could make a good guess as to how they would act and that was seeing into the future. And when you became clever at it, people believed in you, and they'd often act the way you had told them to, just to help you along.

We lived on Granny's wisdom; and we didn't do too badly. When someone killed a pig, there would be a good joint for us. Often some grateful client would put a sack of potatoes or peas on our doorstep; there would often be hot baked bread. I was good at managing, too. I could cook well. I could bake our bread and pasties, and turn out a fine pie of taddage or squab.

I had been happier since Joe and I had come to Granny than I was before.

But the best thing of all was this bond between us; and I felt it now as I sat beside her at the cottage door.

"They mocked me," I said. "The St. Larnstons and Kim. Mellyora didn't though. She was sorry for me."

Granny said, "If you could make a wish now, what would it be?"

I pulled at the grass and didn't speak, for my yearnings were something I hadn't put into words, not even to her.

She answered for me. "You'd be a lady, Kerensa. Riding in your carriage. You'd be dressed in silks and satins and you'd have a gown of bright, rich green and there would be silver buckles on your shoes."

"I'd read and write," I added. I turned to her eagerly: "Granny, will it come true?"

She didn't answer me and I was sad, asking myself why, if she could tell others the future she couldn't tell me. I gazed up at her pleadingly, but she didn't seem to see me. The sun glinted on her smooth blue-black hair which was braided about her head. That hair should have been on Lady St. Larnston. It gave Granny a proud look. Her dark eyes were alert although she hadn't kept those as young as her hair, there were lines about them.

"What are you thinking?" I asked.

"Of the day you came. Remember?"

I laid my head against her thigh. I was remembering.

Our first years—Joe's and mine—were spent by the sea. Our father had a little cottage on the quay which was rather like this one where we lived with Granny, except that ours had the big cellar underneath where we stored and salted the pilchards after a heavy catch. When I think of that cottage I think first of the smell of fish—the good smell which meant that the cellar was well stocked and we could be sure of enough to eat for a few weeks.

I had always looked after Joe because our mother had died when he was four and I was six and she told me always to look after my little brother. Sometimes when our father was out in the boat and the gales blew, we used to think our cottage would be swept into the sea; then I would cuddle Joe and sing to him to stop him being frightened. I used to pretend I wasn't frightened and found that was a good way not to be. Continually pretending helped me a good deal, so there wasn't much I was afraid of.

The best times were when the sea was calm and at harvest time when the shoals of pilchards came to our coast. The huers who were on watch all along the coast would sight the fish and give the warning. I remember how excited everyone was when the cry of "Hewa" went up, for "hewa" means in Cornish "a school of fish." Then the boats would go out and the catch would come in; and our cellars would be full. In the church there would be pilchards among the sheaves of wheat and the fruit and vegetables, to show God that the fishermen were as grateful as the farmers.

Joe and I would work together in the cellar putting one layer of salt between each layer of fish until I thought my hands would never be warm again or free from the smell of pilchards.

But those were the good times, and there came that winter when there was no more fish in our cellars and the gales were worse than they had been for eighty years. Joe and I with the other children used to go down to the beaches at night to twitch the sand eels out of the sand with our small iron crooks; we would bring them home and cook them. We brought back limpets too, and caught snails with which we made a sort of stew. We picked nettles and boiled them. I can remember what hunger was like in those times.

We used to dream we heard the welcome cry of "Hewa Hewa," which was a wonderful dream but made us more despairing than ever when we woke up.

I saw desperation in my father's eyes. I saw him looking at Joe and me; it was as though he came to a decision.

He said to me: "Your mother used to talk to you a lot about your Granny."

I nodded. I had always loved—and never forgotten—the stories of Granny Bee who lived in a place called St. Larnston.

"I reckon she'd like to have a look at 'ee—you and little Joe."

I did not realize the significance of those words until he took out the boat. He, having lived his life on the sea, was well aware of what was threatening. I remember his coming into the cottage and shouting to me. "They'm back!" he said. "It'll be pilchards for breakfast. Take care of Joe till I come back." I watched him go. I saw the others on the beach; they were talking to him and I knew what they were saying, but he didn't listen.

I hate the southwest wind. Whenever it blows I hear it as it blew that night. I put Joe to bed but I didn't go myself. I just sat up, saying "Pilchards for breakfast," and listening to the wind.

He never came back, and we were alone. I didn't know what to do but I still had to pretend for Joe's sake. Whenever I tried to think of what I could do, I kept hearing my mother's voice telling me to look after my brother; and then my father's saying: "Take care of Joe till I come back."

Neighbors helped us for a while, but those were bad times, and there was talk of putting us into the workhouse. Then I remember what my father had said about our Granny and I told Joe we were going to find her. So Joe and I set out for St. Larnston, and, in time and after some hardship, we came to Granny Bee.

Another thing I shall never forget was the first night in Granny Bee's cottage. Joe was wrapped in a blanket and given hot milk to drink; and Granny Bee made me lie down while she bathed my feet and put ointment on the sore places. Afterwards I believed that my wounds were miraculously healed by the morning, but that couldn't have been true. The feeling of deep satisfaction and content comes back to me now. I felt I had come home and that Granny Bee was dearer to me than anyone I had ever known. I loved Joe, of course, but never in my life had I known anyone so wonderful as Granny Bee. I remember lying on the bed while she took down her marvelous black hair and combed it and rubbed it—for even the unexpected arrival of two grandchildren could not interfere with that ritual.

Granny Bee healed me, fed me, clothed me—and she gave me my dignity and my pride. The girl I was at the time when I stood in the hollow wall was not the same one who had come exhausted to her door.

She knew this, because she knew everything.

We adjusted ourselves to the new life quickly, as children do. Our home was now in a mining community instead of a fishing one; for although the St. Larnston mine was closed, the Fedder mine provided work for many of the St. Larnston people who walked the two miles or so each day to and from their work. I discovered that miners were as superstitious as the fishermen had been, for each calling was dangerous enough for those who followed it to wish to please the gods of chance. Granny Bee would sit for hours telling me stories of the mines. My grandfather had been a miner. She told me how a didjan had to be left to placate the evil spirits, and that meant a good part of a hungry man's lunch; she spoke angrily of the system of paying tribute instead of wages which meant that if a man had a bad day and his output was small, his pay was correspondingly so; she was equally indignant about those mines which had their own tommy shops at which a miner must buy all his goods, sometimes at high prices. When I listened to Granny I could imagine myself descending the mine shaft; I could see the men in their red-stained ragged clothes and their tin helmets to which a candle was stuck with sticky clay; I was conscious of dropping down to darkness in the cage; I could feel the hot air and the tremor of the rock as the men worked; I could feel the terror of suddenly coming face to face with a spirit, who had had no didjan, or a black dog and white hare whose appearance meant imminent danger in the mine.

I said to her now: "I'm remembering."

"What brought you to me?" she asked.

"Chance?"

She shook her head. "It was a long way for little ones to come, but you didn't doubt you'd find your Granny, did you? You knew if you went on walking far enough you'd come to her, didn't 'ee now?"

I nodded.

She was smiling as though she had answered my question.

"I'm thirsty, lovey," she said. "Gk) get me a thimbleful of my sloe gin."

I went into the cottage. There was only one room in Granny Bee's cottage, although a storehouse had been built on and it was in this that she brewed her concoctions and often received her clients. The room was our bedroom, and living room. There was a story about it; it had been built by Pedro Balencio, Granny Bee's husband, who was called Pedro Bee because the Cornish people couldn't pronounce his name and weren't going to try. Granny told me how it had been put up in a night to fit the custom which was that if anyone could build a cottage in a night they could claim the ground on which it was built. So Pedro Bee had found his ground—a clearing in the copse—had hidden in the trees the thatch and poles, together with the clay which would make the cob walls; and one moonlit night, with his friends to help him, had built the cottage. All he had to do that first night was make the four walls and the roof; gradually he would put in the window, the door, and the chimney; but Pedro Bee had built what he could call a cottage in a night and satisfied the old custom.

Pedro had come from Spain. Perhaps he had heard that according to legend the Cornish had a streak of the Spaniard in them because so many Spanish sailors had raided the coast and ravished the women, or having been wrecked on the rocks had been befriended and settled down. It's true that although so many have hair the color of Mellyora Martin's, there are as many again with the coal-black hair and flashing dark eyes—and the quick temper to go with them, which is different from the easy-going nature that seems to suit our sleepy climate.

Pedro loved Granny who was named Kerensa—as I was; he loved her black hair and eyes which reminded him of Spain; and they married and lived in the cottage which he had made in a night and they had one daughter who was my mother.

Into that cottage I went to get the sloe gin. I had to pass through it to reach the storehouse where her brews were kept.

Although we had only one room we also had the talfat which was a wide shelf about halfway up the wall and which protruded over the room. It served as a bedroom—mine and Joe's; and we reached it by means of the ladder which was kept in the corner of the room.

Joe was up there now.

"What are you doing?" I called.

He didn't answer me the first time and when I repeated the question he held up a pigeon.

"He broke his leg," he told me. "But twill mend in a day or so."

The pigeon remained still in his hands and I saw that he had constructed a sort of splint to which he had bound the leg. What surprised me so much about Joe was not that he could do these things for birds and animals, but that they remained passive while he did them. I had seen a wild cat come to him and rub her body against his leg, even before she knew he was going to feed her. He never ate all his meals but kept some back to carry about him, for he was certain to find some creature who needed it more than he did. He spent all his time in the woods. I had come upon him laying on his stomach watching insects in the grass. Besides his long, slender fingers that were amazingly clever at mending the broken limbs of birds and animals, he had an extra sense where animals were concerned. He would cure their sickness with Granny's herbs and if any of his charges needed something he would help himself from her store as though the needs of animals were more important than anything else.

His gift for curing was a part of my dream. I saw him in a fine house like Dr. Hilliard's, for doctors in St. Larnston were respected; and if people thought more highly of Granny Bee's remedies, they wouldn't bob a curtsy or pull a forelock for her; in spite of her wisdom she lived in a one-roomed cottage, whereas Dr. Hilliard was gentry. I was determined to raise Joe up with me; and I wanted the rank of doctor for him almost as passionately as I wanted that of a lady for myself.

"And when it's mended?" I asked.

"Well then he'll fly away and feed himself."

"And what'll you get for your pains?"

He didn't take any notice. He was murmuring to his pigeon. If he had heard me he would have wrinkled his brow, wondering what he should get beyond the joy of having made a maimed creature whole.

The storehouse had always excited me, because I had never seen anything like it before. There were benches on each side and these were laden with pots and bottles; there was a beam across the ceiling and attached to this were different kinds of herbs which had been hung up to dry. I stood still for a second or so sniffling that odor which I had never smelt anywhere else. There was a fireplace and a huge blackened cauldron; and beneath the benches were jars of Granny's brews. I knew the one containing sloe gin and I poured some into a glass and carried it back through the cottage and out to her.

I sat down beside her while she sipped.

"Granny," I said, "tell me if I'll ever get what I want."

She turned to me, smiling. "Why, lovey," she said, "you talk like one of these girls who come to me to ask me if their lovers will be true. I don't expect it of 'ee, Kerensa."

"But I want to know."

"Then listen to me. The answer's simple. Clever ones don't want the future told. They make it."

We could hear the shots all through the day. It meant that there was a house party at the Abbas; we had seen the carriages arriving and we knew what it was, because it happened at this time every year. They were shooting pheasants in the woods.

Joe was up on the talfat with a dog which he had found a week before when it was starving. It was just beginning to be strong enough to run about; but it never left Joe's side. He shared his food with it and it had kept him happy since he had found it. But he was restless now. I remembered how he had been the year before and I knew that he was thinking of the poor frightened birds fluttering up before falling dead on the ground.

He had banged his fist on the table when he had talked of it and said; "It's the wounded ones I be thinking of. If they're dead, there's nothing 'ee can do, but it's the wounded ones. They don't always find 'em and ..."

I said: "Joe, you've got to be sensible. Don't do no good worrying about what can't be helped."

He agreed; but he didn't go out; he just stayed on the talfat with his dog whom he called Squab because he found it the day the pigeon whose leg he had mended, flew away and it took the place of the bird.

He worried me because he looked so angry and I was beginning to recognize in Joe something of myself. Therefore I was never sure what he would do. I'd told him often that he was lucky to be able to roam around looking for sick animals; most boys of his age were working in the Fedder mine. People couldn't think why he wasn't sent to work there; but I knew Granny shared my ambitions for him—for us both—and while there was enough for us to eat we had our freedom. It was her way of showing them that there was something special about us.

Granny knew I was worried, so she said I was to go into the woods with her and gather herbs.

I was glad to get away from the cottage.

Granny said: "You mustn't fret yourself, girl. It's his way and he'll always grieve when animals suffer."

"Granny, I wish ... I wish he could be a doctor and look after people. Would it cost a lot of money to make him a doctor?"

"Do you think it's what he want, m'dear?"

"He wants to cure everything. Why not people? He'd get money for it and people would respect him."

"Perhaps he don't care what people think like you do, Kerensa."

"He's got to care!" I said.

"He will, if it's meant."

"You said nothing was meant. You said people make their own future."

"Each makes his own, lovey. Tis for him to make what he will, same as tis for you to."

"He lies there on the talfat most of the day ... with his animals."

"Leave him be, lovey," said Granny. "He'll make his own life the way he wants."

But I wasn't going to leave him be! I was going to make him understand how he had to break out of this life into which he had been born. We were too good for it—all of us. Granny, Joe, and me. I wondered why Granny hadn't seen it, how she could be content to live her life as she had.

Gathering herbs always soothed me. Granny would explain where we had to go to find what we wanted; then she would tell me about the healing properties of each one. But on that day, as we picked, every now and then I would hear the distant sounds of the guns.

When we were tired, she said we should sit down under the trees and I persuaded her to talk of the past.

When Granny talked she seemed to put a spell on me, so that I felt I was there where it was all happening; I even felt that I was Granny herself, being wooed by Pedro Bee, the young miner who was different from all the others. He used to sing lovely songs to her which she didn't understand because they were in Spanish.

"But tain't always necessary to hear words to know," she told me. "Oh, he were not much liked in these parts, being a foreigner and all. There wasn't enough work for Cornishmen some of them did say—let alone foreigners coming to take the manshuns out of their mouths. But my Pedro, he laughed at 'un. He did say that once he'd seen me that was enough. He was going to stay, for where I be that was where he belonged to be."

"Granny, you loved him, truly loved him."

"He was the man for me and I wanted no other—nor ever have."

"So you never had another lover?"

Granny's face was set in an expression I had never seen there before. She had turned her head slightly in the direction of the Abbas and seemed as though she were actually listening for the guns.

"Your grandfather was not a mild man," she said. "He'd have killed the one who wronged him as lief as look at 'un. That were the man *e were."

"Did he ever kill anyone, Granny?"

"No, but he might have ... he would have ... if he'd known."

"Known what, Granny?"

She didn't answer, hut her face was like a mask that she'd put on so that no one should see what was beneath.

I lay against her, looking up at the trees. The firs would stay green all through the winter but the leaves on the others were already russet brown. The cold weather would soon be with us.

Granny said after a long pause: "But it was so long ago."

"That you had another lover?"

"He weren't no lover, I'll tell 'ee. Perhaps I should tell 'ee—for a warning. Tis well to know the way the world wags for others, for maybe it'll wag that way for you. This other one were Justin St. Larnston ... not this Sir Justin. His father."

I sat bolt upright, my eyes wide.

"You, Granny, and Sir Justin St. Larnston!"

"This one's father. There wasn't much difference in them. He was a wicked one."

"Then why ..."

"For Pedro's sake."

"But ..."

"Tis like you to come to a judgment afore you've heard the facts, child. Now I'm started, I must go and tell you all. He saw me; he fancied me; I was a St. Larnston girl, and I was bespoke. He must have made inquiries and found I was to marry Pedro. I remember how he cornered me. There's a little walled garden close to the house."

I nodded.

"I were silly. Went to see one of the maids that was in the kitchens. He caught me in that garden, and that was when he fancied me. Promised a job for Pedro that'd be safer and better paid than working in the mine—if I'd be sensible. Pedro never knew. And I stood out against him. I loved Pedro; I was going to marry Pedro; and there weren't going to be nobody for me but Pedro."

"And then ... ?"

"Things started going wrong for Pedro. The St. Larnston mine was being worked then, and we was in his power. I thought he'd forget me. But he didn't. The more I stood out, the more he wanted me. Pedro never knew. That was the miracle. So one night ... before we was married I went along to him, for I said that if it could be secret and he'd let Pedro alone ... it would be better than the way it were."

"Granny!"

"It shocks you, lovey. I'm glad. But Tm going to make you see I had to do it. I've thought of it since and I know I was right. It was like what I told you . , . making your own future. Mine was with Pedro. I wanted us to be together always in the cottage and our children round us ... boys looking like Pedro, girls like me. And I thought what's once if it'll buy that future for us? And I was right, for it would have been the end of Pedro. You don't know what he were like, that long-ago Sir Justin. He didn't have no feelings for the likes of we. We were like the pheasants they be shooting now ... bred up for his sport. He'd have killed Pedro in time; he'd have put him on the dangerous work. I had to make him leave us alone because I could see that this were like a sport to him. So I went to him first."

"I hate the St. Larnstons," I said.

"Times change, Kerensa, and people change with them. Times is cruel hard but not quite so cruel hard as they were when I was your age. And when your children come, then times'll be a little easier for them. It's the way of things."

"Granny, what happened then?"

"It weren't the end. Once weren't enough. He liked me too well. This black hair of mine that Pedro loved so much ... he liked it, too. There was a blight on my first year of marriage, Kerensa. It should have been so fine and grand, but I had to go to him, you see ... and if Pedro had known, he would have killed him—for passion ran high in his dear heart."

"You were frightened. Granny."

She frowned as though trying to remember. "It were a sort of wild gamble. And it went on for nigh on a year, when I found I was to have a child ... and I didn't know whose. Kerensa, I wouldn't have his child, I wouldn't. I saw it all through the years ... looking like him ... and deceiving Pedro. It would be like a stain that would never be washed out. I couldn't do it. So ... I didn't have the child, Kerensa. I was very ill. I came near to dying, but I didn't have the child; and that were the end as far as he were concerned. He forgot me then. I tried to make up to Pedro. He said I was the gentlest woman in the world with him, though I could be fierce enough with everyone else. It pleased him, Kerensa. It made him happy. And sometimes I think the reason I was so gentle with him and did all I could to please him, was because I'd wronged him; and that seemed strange to me. Like good out of evil. That made me understand a lot about life; that was the beginning of my being able to help others. So, Kerensa, you should never regret any experience, good or evil; for there's some good in what's bad just as there be bad in good ... sure as I sit here in the woods beside you. Two years later, your mother was born—our daughter, Pedro's and mine; and her birth nearly killed me and I couldn't have no more. It was all along of what had happened before, Fm thinking. Oh, but it were a good life. The years pass and the evil is forgotten and many a time I've looked into the past and I've said to myself you couldn't have done different. It was the only way."

"But why should they be able to spoil our lives!" I demanded passionately.

"There's strong and weak in the world; and if you're born weak you must find strength. It'll come to you if you look"

"I shall find strength, Granny."

"Yes, girl, you will, if you want. It's for you to say."

"Oh, Granny, how I hate the St. Larnstons!" I repeated.

"Nay, he is dead and gone long since. Don't hate the children for the parents' sins. As lief blame yourself for what I did. Ah, but it was a happy life. And there came the day of sorrow. Pedro had gone off for his first shift of the day. I knew they'd be blasting down in the mine and he were one of the trammers who'd go in when the fuses had been blown and load the ore into trucks. I don't know what happened down there—no one can ever truly know, but all that day I waited at the top of the shaft for them to bring him out. Twelve long hours I waited, and when they brought him—he weren't my gay and loving Pedro no more. He were alive though ... for a few minutes—just time to say good-bye afore he went. 'Bless you,' he did say to me. Thank you for my life.' And what could he have said better than that? I tell myself even if there hadn't been a Sir Justin, even if I'd given him healthy sons, he couldn't have said better than that."

She stood up abruptly, and we went into the cottage.

Joe had gone out with Squab, and she took me into the storehouse. There was an old wooden box there which was always kept locked and she opened this and showed me what was inside. There were two Spanish combs and mantillas. She put one of the combs in her hair and covered her hair with the mantilla.

"There," she said, "that was how he liked me to look. He said when he made his fortune he would take me to Spain, and I'd sit on a balcony and fan myself while the world went by."

"You look lovely, Granny."

"One of these is for you when you're older," she said. "And when I die, they are both for you."

Then she put the second comb and mantilla on my head and as we stood side by side it was surprising how much alike we were.

I was glad that she had confided in me something which I knew she had told to no other living person.

I shall never forget that moment when we stood side by side in our combs and mantillas, incongruous among the pans and the herbs. And outside the sound of the guns.

I awoke to moonlight, although not much of it came into our cottage. There was a silence about me which was unusual, I sat up on the talfat and wondered what was wrong. No sound of anything. Not Joe's breathing nor Granny's. I remembered that Granny had gone out to help at a childbirth. She often did and then we never knew when she would be coming home, so it was not surprising that she was absent. But where was Joe?

"Joe!" I said. "Joe, where are you?"

I peered to his end of the talfat. He wasn't there.

"Squab!" I called. There was no answer.

I descended the ladder; it did not take more than a second or two to explore the cottage. I went through to the storehouse but Joe wasn't there either and I suddenly thought of the last time I had been in here when Granny had dressed my hair and decked me out in Spanish comb and mantilla; I remembered the sound of the guns.

Was it possible that Joe had been such a fool as to go into the woods to look for wounded birds? Was he mad? If he went into the woods he would be trespassing, and if he were caught... . This was the time of year when trespassing was considered doubly criminal.

I wondered how long he had been gone. I opened the cottage door and looked out, sensing it to be just after midnight.

I went back to the cottage and sat down, not knowing what to do. I wished Granny would come in. We would have to speak to Joe, make him understand the danger he ran in doing such a reckless thing.

I waited and waited and still Granny did not come—nor did Joe. I reckoned that I had sat there for an hour when I could endure it no longer, so I dressed and, leaving the cottage, made my way towards the Abbas woods.

It was a still and beautiful night. Everything seemed slightly weird but enchanting, touched by moonlight. I thought of the Six Virgins and wished that I were making that trip to see the stones, which I had promised myself, instead of coming out to look for Joe.

There was a chill in the air but I was glad of it and I ran all the way to the woods. I stood on the edge of them wondering what to do next. I daren't call Joe, for if any of the gamekeepers should be about, that would attract their attention. Yet if Joe had gone into the woods, it would not be easy for me to find him.

Joe, I thought, you fool! Why do you have to have this obsession, when it makes you do things like this which could bring trouble ... great trouble?

I stood by the board which I knew said private, and told people that if they trespassed they would be prosecuted. These boards were all over the woods as a warning.

"Joe!" I whispered, then wondered if I had spoken too loudly. I went a little way into the woods and thought how silly I was. It was better to go home. He might be there by now.

Horrible pictures kept flashing in and out of my mind. Suppose he found a wounded bird? Suppose he were caught with the bird. But if he were foolish, there was no need for me to be. I should go back to the cottage, climb to the talfat, and go to sleep. There was nothing I could do.

But I found it difficult to leave the woods because Joe was my charge, and I must look after him. I should never forgive myself if I failed him.

I prayed, there in the woods that night, that nothing bad should happen to my brother. The only time I thought of praying was when I wanted something. Then I prayed with all my being, desperately and earnestly, and waited for God to answer.

Nothing happened, but I still stood, hoping. I was delaying returning, because something told me that Joe wouldn't be back at the cottage if I did go back, when I heard a sound. I was alert, listening; it was the whine of a dog.

"Squab!" I whispered, and I seemed to have spoken louder than I thought, for my voice echoed through the woods. A rustling of undergrowth and then, there he was, thrusting against me, making low whining noises, looking up at me as though he wanted to tell me something.

I knelt down. "Squab, where is he, Squab? Where's Joe?"

When he ran a little distance from me, stopped and looked back at me, I knew he was trying to tell me that Joe was somewhere in the woods and he could take me to him. I followed Squab.

When I saw Joe, I was numb with horror. I could only stand still, staring at him and that hideous contraption in which he was held. I could think of nothing, so great was my despair. Joe, caught in the prohibited woods-caught in a mantrap.

I tried to pull at the cruel steel but it would not yield to my puny strength.

"Joe!" I whispered. Squab whined and rubbed against me, looking up at me, imploring me to help, but Joe did not answer me.

Frantically I pulled at those hideous teeth but I could not pry them apart. Panic took hold of me; I had to release my brother before he was found in that trap. If he were alive, they would take him before the magistrates. Sir Justin would have no mercy. If he were alive! He must be alive.

One thing I could not bear was that Joe should be dead. Anything but that, for while he lived I could always do something to save him. I would do something.

You could always do what you wanted to ... provided you tried enough, was one of Granny's maxims and I believed everything she told me. And now when I was confronted by something difficult... the most important task that I had ever had to perform ... I couldn't do it.

My hands were bleeding. I did not know how to prize open this frightful thing. I was putting all my strength into it and I couldn't do it. There must be another way. One person alone could not open a mantrap. I must get help. Granny must come back with me. But Granny for all her wisdom was an old woman. Would she be able to open the trap? She could do anything, I assured myself. Yes, I mustn't waste any more time. I must go back to Granny.

Squab was looking up at me with expectant eyes. I touched him and said: "Stay by him." Then I sped away.

I ran more quickly than I ever had before and yet how long it seemed to take me to reach the road! All the time I was listening for the sound of voices. If Sir Justin's gamekeepers found Joe before I could save him it would be disastrous. I imagined my brother cruelly treated, whipped, enslaved.

My breathing sounded as though I were sobbing as I flung myself across the road; perhaps that was why I was not aware of the ring of footsteps until they were almost upon me.

"Hi," said a voice. "What's wrong?"

I knew the voice; it was that of an enemy, the one they had called Kim.

He mustn't catch me; he mustn't know, I told myself; but he had started to run and he had longer legs than I.

He caught my arm and pulled me round to look at him.

He whistled. "Kerensa of the well!"

"Let me go."

"Why do you fly through the countryside at midnight? Are you a witch? Yes, you are. You threw away your broomstick when you heard me coming.

I tried to twist my arm free, but he wouldn't let me go. He brought his face close to mine.

"You're frightened," he said. "Of me?"

I tried to kick him. "I'm not frightened of you."

Then I thought of Joe lying in that trap and I was so miserable and felt so helpless that the tears came into my eyes.

His manner changed suddenly. He said: "Look, I'm not going to hurt you!" And I felt there must be something kind about someone who could speak in a voice like that.

He was young, strong, and towered above me; and in that moment a thought came to me: he might know how to open the trap.

I hesitated. I knew we had to act quickly, I wanted Joe to live more than anything; if he was going to live he had to be rescued quickly.

I took a chance and the moment I had taken it, regretted it; but it was done and there was no turning back.

"It's my little brother," I said.

"Where?"

I looked towards the woods. "In ... a trap."

"Good God!" he cried. Then: "Show me."

When I led him there, Squab came running to meet us. Kim was very serious now. But he knew how to set about opening the trap.

"Though I don't know if we can manage it," he warned me.

"We must." I spoke fiercely and his mouth turned up slightly at the comers.

"We will," he assured me; and I knew then that we could.

He told me what to do and we worked together but the cruel spring was reluctant to release its prisoner. I was glad—so glad—that I had asked his help because I knew that Granny and I could never have done it.

"Press with all your might," he commanded. I put all my weight on the wicked steel, as, slowly, Kim released the spring. He gave a deep sigh of triumph. We had freed Joe.

"Joey," I whispered, just as I used to when he was a baby. "Don't be dead. You mustn't be."

A dead pheasant had fallen to the ground as we had pulled my brother out of the trap. I saw Kim's quick glance at it but he did not comment on it.

"I think his leg's broken," he said. "We'll have to be careful. It'll be easier if I carry him." He lifted Joe gently in his arms and I loved Kim at that moment, because he was quiet and gentle and he seemed to care what became of us.

Squab and I walked beside him while he carried Joe, and I felt triumphant. But when we reached the road I remembered that, as well as being gentry, Kim was also a friend of the St. Larnstons'. He might well have been a member of this afternoon's shooting party; and to these people the preservation of the birds was more important than the lives of people like us.

I said anxiously: "Where are you going?"

"To Dr. Hilliard. He needs immediate attention."

"No," I said in panic.

"What do you mean?"

"Don't you see? He'll ask where we found him. They'll know someone's been in the trap. They'll know. Don't you see?"

"Stealing pheasants," said Kim.

"No ... no. He never stole. He wanted to help the birds. He cares about birds and animals. You can't take him to the doctor. Please ... please... ."

I caught at his coat and looked up at him.

"Where then?" he asked.

"To our cottage. My Granny's as good as a doctor. Then no one will know... ."

He paused and I thought he would ignore my plea. Then he said, "All right. But I think he needs a doctor."

"He needs to be home with me and his Granny."

"You're determined to have your way. It's wrong, though!"

"He's my brother. You know what they would do to him."

"Show me the way," he said; and I led him to the cottage.

Granny was at the door, frightened, wondering what had become of us. While I told her in breathless jerks what had happened, Kim didn't say anything; he carried Joe into our cottage and laid him on the floor where Granny had spread out a blanket. Joe looked very small.

"I think he's broken his leg," said Kim.

Granny nodded.

Together they bound his leg to a stick; it seemed like a dream to see Kim there in our cottage taking orders from Granny. He stood by while she bathed Joe's wounds and rubbed ointment into them.

When she had finished, Kim said: "I still think he ought to see a doctor."

"It's better this way," Granny answered firmly, because I had told her where we had found him.

So Kim shrugged his shoulders and went away.

We watched over Joe all that night, Granny and I, and we knew in the morning that he would live.

We were frightened. Joe lay on his blankets too sick to care; but we cared. Every time we heard a step, we started up in terror, afraid that it was someone come to take Joe.

We talked about it in whispers.

"Granny," I pleaded, "did I do wrong? He was there and he was big and strong, and I thought he would know how to open the trap. I was afraid. Granny, afraid you and I wouldn't get Joe out."

"You did right," Granny Bee soothed me. "A night in the trap would have killed our Joe."

Then we fell into silence, watching Joe, listening for footsteps.

"Granny," I said, "do you think he'll ... ?"

"I couldn't say."

"He seemed kind. Granny. Different from some."

"He did seem kind," agreed Granny.

"But he's a friend of the St. Larnstons', Granny. That day I was in the wall he were there. He mocked like the rest."

Granny nodded.

Footsteps near the cottage. A rap on the door.

Granny and I were there simultaneously.

Mellyora Martin stood smiling at us. She looked very pretty in a mauve and white gingham dress, white stockings and her black, buckled shoes. On her arm she carried a wicker basket which was covered by a white cloth.

"Good afternoon," said Mellyora in her sweet high voice.

Neither Granny nor I answered; we were both too relieved to show anything but our relief.

"I heard," went on Mellyora, "so I brought this along for the invalid."

She held out the wicker basket.

Granny took it and said, "For Joe ... ?"

Mellyora nodded. "I saw Mr. Kimber this morning. He told me how the boy had had an accident climbing a tree. I thought he might like these... ."

Granny said in a voice meeker than I'd ever heard her use before: "Thank 'ee. Miss."

Mellyora smiled. "I hope he will soon be well," she said. "Good afternoon."

We stood at the door watching her as she walked away; then without speaking we carried the basket inside. Under the cloth were eggs, butter, half a roast chicken, and a loaf of homemade bread.

Granny and I looked at each other. Kim wasn't going to tell. We had nothing to fear from the law.

I was silent thinking about my prayer in the woods and how, providentially, it seemed, I had received help. I had snatched the opportunity given; I had taken a great risk; but I had won.

I had rarely felt as happy as I did in that moment; and later when I thought what I owed to Kim, I told myself that I would always remember.

Joe took a long time to recover. He used to lie on his blanket with Squab beside him for hours, doing nothing, saying nothing. He couldn't walk for a long time, and when he began to, we realized that this had made a cripple of him.

He didn't remember very much about the trap; only that terrifying moment when he had walked into it and he had heard it snap, as it crunched his bones. Fortunately, pain had sent him into speedy oblivion. It was no use scolding him, no use telling him it was his fault; he would have done it again if he could.

But he was listless for many weeks and it was only when I brought him a rabbit with an injured foot that he began to cheer up; in looking after the rabbit he regained some of his spirits and during that time it was like having the old Joe back. I could see that I would have to make sure he always had some maimed creature to care for.

The winter came and it was a hard one. Winters were harder inland than they had been on the coast, but, even so, the Cornish winters were usually mild; this year, however, the wind turned from the usual southwest and came from the north and east bringing blizzards with it. The Fedder mine where many of the villagers now worked, was not yielding the tin that it had up till now and there were rumors that it might in a few years become an old scat bal.

Christmas came and there were hampers of food from the Abbas—a custom which they had kept through the centuries—and we were allowed to gather kindling from some parts of the woods. It wasn't like the last Christmas because Joe wasn't able to run about and we had to face the fact that his leg would never be right. Still, the events of that night were too recent for us to complain; we all knew what Joe had narrowly escaped and we weren't likely to forget.

Troubles don't come singly. It must have been in February that Granny took a chill; she was hardly ever ill, so we didn't take much notice during the first few days; and then one night her coughing awakened me and I scrambled down from the talfat to get her some of her own syrup. It soothed her temporarily but it didn't cure the cough and a few nights later I heard her talking and, to my horror, I discovered that she didn't know who I was when I went to her. She kept calling me Pedro.

I was terrified that she was going to die, for she was very ill. I sat beside her all that night and in the morning she stopped being delirious. When she was able to tell me what herbs to brew for her, I felt better. I nursed her for three weeks, on her instructions, and gradually she began to recover. She was able to walk about the cottage but when she went out her cough started again, so I made her stay in. I gathered some herbs for her and made a few of the brews; but there were many which needed her special skill. In any case, not so many people came to ask her advice now. They were getting poorer and so were we. Moreover I heard some of them questioning the power of Granny Bee. She couldn't cure herself, could she? That boy of hers was a cripple, wasn't he, and all he'd done was fall off a tree! It didn't seem as though Granny Bee was so wonderful after all.

Those tasty joints of pork did not come our way. There were no grateful clients now to leave a sack of peas or potatoes on our doorstep. We had to eat sparingly if we wanted to eat twice a day.

We had flour, so I made a kind of manshun in the old cloam oven, and it tasted good. We kept a goat who gave us milk, but we couldn't feed her properly and we got less milk.

One day at breakfast I spoke to Granny of an idea which had come to me during the night.

The three of us were sitting at the table, our bowls before us containing what we called sky blue and sinkers—a dish which was being eaten a great deal that winter. It was made of water with a dash of skim milk which we got cheaply from the farmer, who sold what he didn't need for his pigs; we boiled this and dropped pieces of bread into it. There was a tinge of blue in the liquid and the bread always sank to the bottom of the bowl—hence its name.

"Granny," I said, "I reckon I ought to be bringing something in."

She shook her head, but I saw the look in her eyes. I was nearly thirteen. Whoever heard of a girl in my station, who wasn't Granny Bee's granddaughter, living at lady's leisure? Granny knew that something would have to be done. Joe couldn't help, but I was strong and healthy.

"We'll think about it," she said.

"I have thought."

"What?" she asked.

"What is there?"

That was the question. I could go to Farmer Pengaster and ask if he wanted someone to help in the dairy, with the animals, or in the kitchens. There would be plenty yearning to give their services if he did! Where else? One of the houses of the gentry? I hated the thought. All my pride rose in revolt; but I knew it had to be.

"It might only be for a time," said Granny. "In the summer I'll get on my feet again."

I couldn't bear to look at Granny or I should have told her that I would rather starve than work as I was suggesting. But I wasn't the only one to be considered. There was Joe who had had this terrible misfortune; and there was Granny herself. If I were away working, they could have my share of the sky blue and sinkers; my share of the potatoes and bacon.

"I'll put myself up at Trelinket Fair next week," I said firmly.

Trelinket Fair was held twice a year in the village of Trelinket—a good two miles from St. Larnston. We had always gone to it—Granny, Joe, and I — in the old days; and those were red-letter days for us. Granny Bee would dress her hair with special care and we would walk proudly through the crowds; she used to take some of her cures and sell them to a stallholder, who bought as many as she could provide. Then she would buy us gingerbread or a fairing. But this year we had nothing to sell; and as Joe couldn't walk the two miles to the fair everything was changed.

I set out alone, with my heart like a piece of lead; my pride debased. How many times, walking through the fair with Granny and an uncrippled Joe, had I glanced at those men and women who stood on the hiring platform and been so happy because I was not like them. It seemed to me the depth of degradation that men and women should have to hire themselves out. It was like being in a slave market. But it was what had to be done if one needed work, for employers came to the fair for the purpose of hiring likely-looking servants. Now, today, I was to be one of them.

It was a bright spring day and somehow the sunshine made it worse; I envied the birds who seemed mad with joy after the unusually hard winter; in fact I was ready to envy everyone that morning. Once the fair had offered a feast of enjoyment. I had loved the bustle of it, the smell, the noise—everything that made up Trelinket Fair. On the refreshment stalls there was hot beef and boiled goose; you watched them cooking on fires beside the stalls. There were stalls of pies, golden pasty enclosing the delicious contents baked the day before in some farmhouse kitchen or cottage oven. The stallholders called out the tantalizing descriptions as the people strolled past. "Try a piece of this old muggety, m'dear. Reckon you ain't never tasted the like." And one of them cut open a pie to display the entrail of sheep or calves, which was muggety, or those of pig which were natdins. A special treat was the taddage pies made with sucking pig; and the more common squab or pigeon pie was there, too.

People would stand by the stalls sampling and buying the pies to take away with them. There was that part of the fair where the cattle were on show; there were the cheap-Jacks selling almost everything you could think of—old boots and clothing, saddlery, pots, pans, and even cloam ovens. There were the fortunetellers and the healers—those who shouted the merits of their medicines and who had been customers of Granny Bee's.

And close by the spot where a goose was being roasted over an open fire was the hiring platform. I viewed it with shame. Several people were already standing there; they looked a wretched and dejected lot; and no wonder. Who could enjoy displaying themselves for hire! And to think that I, Kerensa Carlee, must join them. I thought I should hate the smell of roasting goose forever after. Everyone around me seemed to be laughing; the sun had turned hot and I felt angry with the whole world.

But I had given my word to Granny that I would stand for hire. I could not go back and tell her that my heart had failed me right at the last moment. I couldn't go back and be a burden to them; I, who was well and strong.

Resolutely I approached the platform and mounted the rickety wooden steps at the side; then I was standing there among them.

Prospective employers regarded us with interest, weighing up our possibilities. I saw Farmer Pengaster among them. If he took me, it wouldn't be too bad. He was reckoned to be good to his workpeople and I should be able to take little titbits home to the cottage. It would ease my bitterness considerably if I could go home now and then and play the lady bountiful.

Then I saw two people who made me start back in dismay. I recognized them as the butler and housekeeper at the Abbas. Only one purpose could have brought them to the fair and they were making straight for the hiring platform. Now I was beginning to be frightened. It had been a dream of mine that one day I should live at St. Larnston Abbas; I had lived with that dream, because Granny Bee had told me that if you created a dream and did all you could to make it come true, it was almost certain that in time it would. Now I saw this dream of mine could easily come true—I could live at the Abbas—as a servant!

Hundreds of images flitted through my mind. I thought of young Justin St. Larnston haughtily giving me orders; of Johnny jeering at me, reminding me I was a servant; of Mellyora coming to drink tea with the family and myself standing by in cap and apron to serve them. I thought of Kim there. There was another thought too. Ever since Granny had confided in me that day in the woods, I had thought a good deal about that Sir Justin who was the father of the present one. They were very much alike and I was like Granny. There was a possibility that what had happened to Granny might happen to me. I burned with rage and shame at the thought.

They were coming nearer, talking earnestly, then scrutinizing one of the hiring girls who was about my age. What if they should pass along the line? What if they should choose me?

I was wrestling with myself. Should I leap from the platform and run home? I pictured myself explaining to Granny. She would understand. Hadn't it been my suggestion—not hers—that I should come at all?

Then I saw Mellyora—dainty and fresh in mauve gingham, with a flounced skirt and a neat close-fitting bodice, neck and sleeves edged with lace; with white stockings and black walking shoes with straps; and her fair hair showing from under her straw bonnet.

The moment I saw her she saw me, and in that second I was unable to hide my apprehension. She came over swiftly, her eyes troubled, and she stood right before me.

"Kerensa?" She said my name softly.

I was angry because she had seen me in my humiliation, and how could I help hating her, standing there neat, clean, fresh, so dainty—and free.

"You're hiring yourself?"

"It would seem so," I answered truculently.

"But ... you haven't before."

"Times are hard," I muttered.

The pair from the Abbas were coming nearer. The butler already had his eyes on me and they were shining in a warm and speculative manner.

A look of excitement came into Mellyora's face; she caught her breath and started to speak in a hurry as though the words wouldn't come out quickly enough.

"Kerensa, we're looking for someone. Would you come to the parsonage?"

It was like a reprieve. The dream was not turning sour on me. I was not going to St. Larnston Abbas by way of the back door. If I did that, I felt the real dream would never come true.

"To the parsonage!" I stammered. "So you are here for the hiring?"

She nodded eagerly. "Yes, we need ... someone. When will you be ready to start?"

Haggety the butler was close to us now; he said: "Morning, Miss Martin."

"Good morning."

"Nice to see you. Miss, at the fair. Mrs. Rolt and myself s here to find us a pair of girls for the kitchens." He was looking at me now, his little eyes shining.

"This looks a likely 'un," he said. "What's your name?"

I lifted my head haughtily. "You're too late," I said. "I'm hired."

There was a feeling of unreality in the air that day. I had the impression that this really wasn't happening to me, that soon I would wake up and find myself on the talfat, dreaming as always or laughing with Granny Bee.

I was actually walking along beside Mellyora Martin; and she had engaged me to work at the parsonage—she, a girl of my own age.

Mr. Haggety and Mrs. Rolt had looked so astounded that they had only gaped when Mellyora said a gracious good-bye. They stared at us as we walked away and I heard Mrs. Rolt murmur: "Well, did 'ee ever see the like!" I glanced at Mellyora and I felt a vague alarm; I sensed that she was beginning to regret a rash action. I was certain then that she had not come to the fair to hire anyone, that she had acted on an impulse to save me from going to work at the Abbas, just as she had tried to save me from the mockery of the boys when she had found me in the wall.

I asked: "Is it all right?"

"What?"

"For you to hire me?"

"It'll be all right."

"But ..."

"We'll manage!" she said; she was very pretty when she smiled and the sparkle and defiance in her eyes made her prettier.

People turned to look at us as we went through the crowds, past the cheap-Jack who was shouting the merits of his wares, how a bottle of this or that would cure all the ills in the world; past the roasting goose and the stall of fairings. We were such a contrast—she so fair, myself so dark; she so neat, and myself, though clean, for I had washed my smock and my hair the day before, so poorly dressed; she in her black shining shoes, myself barefoot. And it wouldn't occur to anyone that she had hired me.

She led me to the edge of the field in which the fair was set up and there was the pony and trap which I knew belonged to the parsonage: in the driving seat was the middle-aged governess whom I had seen often in Mellyora's company.

She turned as we approached and said: "Good gracious, Mellyora! What does this mean?"

I presumed the "this" referred to me, so my head shot up and I gave the governess my haughtiest stare.

"Oh, Miss Kellow, I must explain ..." began Mellyora in an embarrassed flutter.

"Indeed you must," was the answer. "Pray do."

"This is Kerensa Carlee. I've hired her."

"You've ... what?"

I turned to Mellyora, reproach in my eyes. If she had been wasting my time ... if she had been playing some game of pretense ... if this was supposed to be some amusing sort of game... .

She shook her head. Again that disturbing habit of reading my thoughts.

"It's all right, Kerensa," she said. "Leave this to me."

She talked to me as though I were a friend, not a hired girl; I could have liked Mellyora if I could only rid myself of this bitter envy. I had imagined her foolish, meek, quite dull. It wasn't true though. There was a great deal of spirit in Mellyora, as I was to discover.

Now it was her turn to be haughty, and she managed this very well. "Get in, Kerensa. Miss Kellow, pray drive us home."

"Now, Mellyora ..." She was a dragon, this Miss Kellow; I judged her to be in her early forties, her lips were tight, her eyes alert. I felt an extraordinary sympathy for her because she, in her superior way, was after all only a servant.

"This," retorted Mellyora, still the haughty young lady, "is a matter between myself and my father."

We clop-clopped along the road back to St. Larnston, and none of us spoke as we passed the cottages and the blacksmiths' shops and came to the gray church with its tall tower and the graveyard with its toppling tombstones. Beyond was the parsonage.

Miss Kellow drew up at the door and Mellyora said: "Come along, Kerensa."

I alighted with her and Miss Kellow drove the trap to the stables.

I said: "You hadn't any right to hire me, had you?"

"Of course I had a right," she retorted. "If I hadn't you would have gone to the Abbas, and you would have hated that."

"How did you know?"

She smiled. "I guessed."

"How do you know I won't hate it here?"

"Of course, you won't. My father is the best man in the world. Anyone would be happy in this house. I have to explain to him, though." She hesitated, uncertain what to do with me. Then she said: "Come with me."

She pushed open the door and we went into a large hall in which was a bowl of daffodils and anemones standing on an oak chest. A grandfather clock ticked in a comer and facing the door was a wide staircase.

Mellyora signed to me to follow her and we mounted the staircase. On the landing she threw open a door.

"Wait in my bedroom," she said, "until I call you."

The door shut on me and I was alone. I had never been in such a room before. There were soft blue curtains at the big window and a blue coverlet on the bed. There were pictures on the wall and pale-blue lover's knots on the pink wallpaper. What struck me most, though, was the little bookcase near the bed. The books Mellyora read! They brought home to me the gulf between us, so I turned my back on them and looked out of the window. Below me was the parsonage garden; about half an acre, with lawns and flowerbeds. And working in the garden was the Reverend Charles Martin, Mellyora's father. As I watched, I saw Mellyora appear; she ran straight to him and began talking earnestly. I watched intently, knowing that my fate was being discussed.

The Reverend Charles was looking startled. Mellyora was being emphatic. They were arguing; she took his hand and went on talking vehemently. She was pleading for me. I wondered why she cared so much.

I could see she was winning; he couldn't refuse anything to his lovely daughter.

He nodded resignedly and they started to walk towards the house. In a few minutes the door opened, and there stood Mellyora, smiling the smile of triumph.

The Reverend Charles came towards me; he said in the voice he used for the pulpit, "So you are coming to work with us, Kerensa. I hope you will be happy here."