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thy life, did ter?”
    As a compromise, she picked up the cocoanut and shook it, to see if it had any milk.
    “It’s a good ‘un, you may back yer life o’ that. I got it fra’ Bill Hodgkisson. ‘Bill,’ I says, ’tha non wants them three nuts, does ter? Arena ter i for gi‘ein’ me one for my bit of a lad an’ wench?’ ‘I ham, Walter, my lad,”e says; ‘ta’e which on ’em ter’s a mind.‘ An’ so I took one, an’ thanked ’im. I didn’t like ter shake it afore ‘is eyes, but ’e says, ‘Tha’d better ma’e sure it’s a good un, Walt.’ An’ so, yer see, I knowed it was. He’s a nice chap, is Bill Hodgkisson, ‘e’s a nice chap!”
    “A man will part with anything so long as he’s drunk, and you’re drunk along with him,” said Mrs. Morel.
    “Eh, tha mucky little ‘ussy, who’s drunk, I sh’d like ter know?” said Morel. He was extraordinarily pleased with himself, because of his day’s helping to wait in the Moon and Stars. He chattered on.
    Mrs. Morel, very tired, and sick of his babble, went to bed as quickly as possible, while he raked j the fire.
    Mrs. Morel came of a good old burgher family, k famous independents who had fought with Colonel Hutchinson, 3 and who remained stout Congregationalists. 4 Her grandfather had gone bankrupt in the lace-market at a time when so many lace-manufacturers were ruined in Nottingham. Her father, George Coppard, was an engineer—a large, handsome, haughty man, proud of his fair skin and blue eyes, but more proud still of his integrity. Gertrude resembled her mother in her small build. But her temper, proud and unyielding, she had from the Coppards.
    George Coppard was bitterly galled by his own poverty. He became foreman of the engineers in the dockyard at Sheerness. Mrs. Morel—Gertrude—was the second daughter. She favoured her mother, loved her mother best of all; but she had the Coppards’ clear, defiant blue eyes and their broad brow. She remembered to have hated her father’s overbearing manner towards her gentle, humorous, kindly-souled mother. She remembered running over the breakwater at Sheerness and finding the boat. She remembered to have been petted and flattered by all the men when she had gone to the dockyard, for she was a delicate, rather proud child. She remembered the funny old mistress, whose assistant she had become, whom she had loved to help in the private school. And she still had the Bible that John Field had given her. She used to walk home from chapel with John Field when she was nineteen. He was the son of a well-to-do tradesman, had been to college in London, and was to devote himself to business.
    She could always recall in detail a September Sunday afternoon, when they had sat under the vine at the back of her father’s house. The sun came through the chinks of the vine-leaves and made beautiful patterns, like a lace scarf, falling on her and on him. Some of the leaves were clean yellow, like yellow flat flowers.
    “Now sit still,” he had cried. “Now your hair, I don’t know what it is like! It’s as bright as copper and gold, as red as burnt copper, and it has gold threads where the sun shines on it. Fancy their saying it’s brown. Your mother calls it mouse-colour.”
    She had met his brilliant eyes, but her clear face scarcely showed the elation which rose within her.
    “But you say you don’t like business,” she pursued.
    “I don’t. I hate it!” he cried hotly.
    “And you would like to go into the ministry,” she half implored.
    “I should. I should love it, if I thought I could make a first-rate preacher.”
    “Then why don’t you—why don’t you?” Her voice rang with defiance. “If I were a man, nothing would stop me.”
    She held her head erect. He was rather timid before her.
    “But my father’s so stiff-necked. He means to put me into the business, and I know he’ll do it.”
    “But if you’re a man ?” she had cried.
    “Being a man isn’t everything,” he