She walked round the house and came to the shed door.  In this shed large kettles and other vessels for potash-making were set up, but in front of these Bates and his man were at work making a rude pinewood coffin.  The servant was the elder of the two.  He had a giant-like, sinewy frame and a grotesquely small head; his cheeks were round and red like apples, and his long whiskers evidently received some attention from his vanity; it seemed an odd freak for vanity to take, for all the rest of him was rough and dirty.  He wriggled when the girl darkened the doorway, but did not look straight at her.

“There’s more of the bank going to slip where father fell—­it’s loose,” she said.

They both heard.  The servant answered her, commenting on the information.  These were the only words that were said for some time.  The girl stood and pressed herself against the side of the door.  Bates did not look at her.  At last she addressed him again.  Her voice was low and gentle, perhaps from fear, perhaps from desire to persuade, perhaps merely from repression of feeling.

“Mr. Bates,” she said, “you’ll let me go in the boat with that?”—­she made a gesture toward the unfinished coffin.

His anger had cooled since he had last seen her, not lessening but hardening, as molten metal loses malleability as it cools.  Much had been needed to fan his rage to flame, but now the will fused by it had taken the mould of a hard decision that nothing but the blowing of another fire would melt.

“Ye’ll not go unless you go in a coffin instead of along-side of it.”

The coarse humour of his refusal was analogous to the laugh of a chidden child; it expressed not amusement, but an attempt to conceal nervous discomposure.  The other man laughed; his mind was low enough to be amused.

“It’s no place for me here,” she urged, “and I ought by rights to go to the burying of my father.”

“There’s no place for ye neither where he’ll be buried; and as to ye being at the funeral, it’s only because I’m a long sight better than other men about the country that I don’t shovel him in where he fell.  I’m getting out the boat, and sending Saul here and the ox-cart two days’ journey, to have him put decently in a churchyard.  I don’t b’lieve, if I’d died, you and your father would have done as much by me.”

As he lauded his own righteousness his voice was less hard for the moment, and, like a child, she caught some hope.

“Yes, it’s good of you, and in the end you’ll be good and let me go too, Mr. Bates.”

“Oh yes.”  There was no assent in his voice.  “And I’ll go too, to see that ye’re not murdered when Saul gets drunk at the first house; and we’ll take my aunt too, as we can’t leave her behind; and we’ll take the cow that has to be milked, and the pigs and hens that have to be fed; and when we get there, we’ll settle down without any house to live in, and feed on air.”