' Then
something--something--'pay three and sixpence a week'--something--'bed'
--something--something."
"I know, ma'am; he shares a bed with the eldest boy."
"Yes, that's it; and he wants to know if you can help him. 'I don't like
to trouble you, mother; but it is hard for a boy to get his living in
London.'"
"But I've sent him all my money. I shan't have any till next quarter."
"I'll lend you some, Esther. We can't leave the boy to starve. He can't
live on two and sixpence a week."
"You're very good, ma'am; but I don't like to take your money. We shan't
be able to get the garden cleared this winter."
"We shall manage somehow, Esther. The garden must wait. The first thing to
do is to see that your boy doesn't want for food."
The women resumed their walk up the hill. When they reached the top Mrs.
Barfield said--
"I haven't heard from Mr. Arthur for months. I envy you, Esther, those
letters asking for a little money. What's the use of money to us except to
give it to our children? Helping others, that is the only happiness."
At the end of the coombe, under the shaws, stood the old red-tiled
farmhouse in which Mrs. Barfield had been born. Beyond it, downlands
rolled on and on, reaching half-way up the northern sky. Mrs. Barfield was
thinking of the days when her husband used to jump off his cob and walk
beside her through those gorse patches on his way to the farmhouse.
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