But the dust was dust again and her vision was clear, the edge of the hoe standing straight and flashing keenly into the soil. ‘Not him,’ she said, ‘not him.’ She went endlessly down the row, plant after plant, the same, no thought of how long she would endure or of the end. Her body and mind were of the earth, clodded with the clods; the strength of her arms and her back and her thighs arose out of the soil, the clods turned upon themselves to work back into their own substance endlessly. The bell at St Lucy rang for the mid-morning but its tones beat upon the outside of the dust. A little while the bell flowed onto the outer faces of the clods but it could not pierce the inner part and it fell away, scarcely missed when it went. She turned the row-end without thought, without liberation, treading a mill. Then she heard an echo of her blade falling, or a repetition of it, nearer than St Lucy’s bell and more resonant of the inner way of the soil, but she went steadily on. The echo became another hoe at work, drawing nearer, and then a shadow began to creep toward her down the row and she saw that Jasper Kent had come to the field. He worked toward her steadily and she stopped at the labour, aware now of the day and of the farm, and she rubbed her aching arms and smiled across the tobacco plants, aware now of the quarry. When he came up to her he stopped and looked at her and laughed a little, as if he knew that the conveyance of his arrival there had been the hoe.

‘You could do some easy work if you’d rather,’ he said. ‘I can finish this in no time.’ Then he took some bills from his pocket and handed them to her, saying, ‘Another piece of money I wish you’d put away for me. Sold a little truck. Go do some easy work whilst I finish this-here.’