“No, it's my missis's.”

“Oh, that's it!” And the man looked at Anna as if she were some odd little cattle. She glowered with black eyes.

Brangwen left her there, in charge of the barman, whilst he went to see about the selling of some young stirks. Farmers, butchers, drovers, dirty, uncouth men from whom she shrank instinctively stared down at her as she sat on her seat, then went to get their drink, talking in unabated tones.

All was big and violent about her.

“Whose child met that be?” they asked of the barman.

“It belongs to Tom Brangwen.”

The child sat on in neglect, watching the door for her