part of the pattern in the great web of human doings then weaving in both hemispheres, from the White Sea to Cape Horn. 

 The shed was reached, and she pointed out the spars. Winterborne regarded them silently, then looked at her. 

 “Now, Marty, I believe—” he said, and shook his head. 

 “What?” 

 “That you’ve done the work yourself.” 

 “Don’t you tell anybody, will you, Mr. Winterborne?” she pleaded, by way of answer. “Because I am afraid Mr. Melbury may refuse my work if he knows it is mine.” 

 “But how could you learn to do it? ’Tis a trade.” 

 “Trade!” said she. “I’d be bound to learn it in two hours.” 

 “Oh no, you wouldn’t, Mrs. Marty.” Winterborne held down his lantern, and examined the cleanly split hazels as they lay. “Marty,” he said, with dry admiration, “your father with his forty years of practice never made a spar better than that. They are too good for the thatching of houses—they are good enough for the furniture. But I won’t tell. Let me look at your hands—your poor hands!” 

 He had a kindly manner of a quietly severe tone; and when she seemed reluctant to show her hands, he took hold of one and examined it as if it were his own. Her fingers were blistered. 

 “They’ll get harder in time,” she said. “For if father continues ill, I shall have to go on wi’ it. Now I’ll help put ’em up in wagon.” 

 Winterborne without speaking set down his lantern, lifted her as she was about to stoop over the bundles, placed her behind him, and began throwing up the bundles himself. “Rather than you should do it I will,” he said. “But the men will be here directly. Why, Marty!—whatever has happened to your head? Lord, it has shrunk to nothing—it looks an apple upon a gate-post!” 

 Her heart swelled, and she could not speak. At length she managed to groan, looking on the ground, “I’ve made myself ugly—and hateful—that’s what I’ve done!” 

 “No, no,” he answered. “You’ve only cut your hair—I see now.” 

 “Then why must you needs say that about apples and gate-posts?” 

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