Alick shot like a stone from a catapult half across the yard crash in a bowie of lime, Ewan knew he’d be back in less than a minute, the only other dangerous one in the gang the one called Norman, an unscrubbed little swine—about three inches higher than yourself—still, little. And he swung up his left, keelie on the point, he whirled about and went flump in the stour; and it seemed to Ewan suddenly all the day cleared, Duncairn clear, bright and sharp to his finger-tips’ touch, he’d never felt so well or so keen for life, he laughed: and Alick Watson came at him head down.

The foreman and another man heard the fighting back by the sheds and came round to see. The childe with the foreman grunted That’s him: another of those gentry apprentice sods, but the foreman Dallas of course had his favourite, he called out Steady a bit, Tavendale! Ewan dripped blood like a half-killed pig, but he didn’t know that, infighting, they were both thick-streaked with blood and snot, holding and fighting, Alick tried to kick, Ewan felt a stab of pain like a knife, and loosened his hold and Alick broke away—looked, swung, and struck, it caught Ewan’s neck, he gave a queer grunt and twist, the fight finished, queer that silence to Alick and the way the sheds shook.

When Chris woke next morning the first thought that came in her mind was of Ewan. She didn’t lie in bed and stretch as usual, got out and dressed and went down to the kitchen. Outside the early dawn of Duncairn lay pallid on the rigs and rinds of grey granite stretching away to the feet of the morning, east wan-tinted, no birds crying, the toun turning to yawn awake below. Jock came and purred and circled her legs, sniffed and sneezed, but she hardly noticed, taking up Ma’s tea, syne Miss Murgatroyd’s, and so at last gained Ewan’s room.

He lay fast sleep, head bandaged, neck bandaged, she thought He’s so young! as she saw his arm, dimpled and smooth of skin, lying by his side. And then as she went nearer she saw his face, the bruises upon it, the broken skin, the swollen lips: and went soft inside in a blaze of rage. How could they—to Ewan, he was only a bairn!

She picked up one of the apples he’d want and sat down on the bed and shook him awake. He woke with the usual quick lack of blink, but half unguarded for a minute, Chris thought, as though she’d peeped down in his eyes for once to that queer boy-self that so puzzled her. Son of herself but sometimes so un-sib she felt more kin to Meg Watson the maid!

She told him that, idly, as though it were a joke, and he put his hands under his head and considered, and said something about hormones and egg-cells, whatever they had to do with it—I’m not so different; but I want to KNOW THINGS. And I love you up to that phosphor-bronze hair—more than Meg Whatname’ll ever do.