But there was more to it than that, some never knew it, but real enough, an antrin magic that bound you in one with the mind, not only the body of a man, with his dreams and desires, his loves, even hates—hate of Ewan, a wild boy’s hate, passionless coldness of Robert in shadow, they’d given you hate with their love often enough, tears with such white tenderness as even now you might not unfold in memory,—here, at this moment, kneeling here, still, the August sun on your hair, dreaming and dreaming because Ma Cleghorn had blithered on the curse of a woman growing old, because you had heard a baby nearby wailing soft in a baby’s unease!

And, suddenly remorseful at her terrible sweirty, she bent and dug and smoothed out the earth, raked it again to a loamy smoothness around the wide feet of the Michaelmas daisies, they looked a bit like Sim Leslie the bobby. Babies? (said her mind, though she tried to still it)—hadn’t she had Ewan, perfect enough, grown up though he was, distant and cool? And wasn’t he fine enough to have made with a little help from his father long syne? And she minded that other baby who had died in the days of the General Strike, he came over-soon that night she ran to warn the strikers who were out by the railway to blow up Segget High Brig. Oh, long since she’d minded that baby at all, the baby Michael, she’d never seen him, he’d died within an hour of his birth, killing something in Robert as he died, killing the last of the quean in herself she had thought through the long drowse of years in Segget, my bairn, the lost baby who might have been mine—

She heard light footsteps hesitating on the path and shook the mist from her eyes a minute before she looked up to see who it was, Ellen Johns, slim, sweet in a summer frock, a blue cloud her hair in the August day, soft dark down on her lip, blue eyes like pansies, dark and wet, looking at Chris queer, half-poised like a bird to turn about and fly off.

I’m sorry, Mrs Colquohoun, I didn’t know—

Chris said That I was weeping a bit? Old women often have a weep, you know. Coming to help, or only to watch?

Ellen said I’ll help and squatted on long, pointed shoe-heels and began to weed with long, pointed fingers—I was sick of sitting indoors and reading.

Chris minded the book that Ma had seen and looked at her with a little smile: You were reading something about Birth Control?

And she didn’t blush and didn’t look up, just went on with the weeding, quick and calm, intent, and nodded: Yes. I suppose I’ll need it some time. Can’t find out much and it sounds a mess, but it’s a thing that’s got to be learnt. Don’t you think so? and Chris nearly laughed, but didn’t, Yes, I think it has. But you’ll want a baby sometime?