The Matchmaker by Stella Gibbons

window reading her letters. She nodded impatiently without looking up.
    “Now you can say I’ve been watering the milk,” he remarked with his friendly smile, when they were walking through the rain, which was now slightly less heavy, towards the cottage. A hound-puppy whom Mr. Hoadley addressed as Ruffler had joined them and walked at his heels.
    “It’s delicious creamy milk; we had some for tea yesterday didn’t we, Meg?”
    “Meg hab milk?” said Meg questioningly; she had never taken her eyes from the farmer since he joined them, and by the way he looked at her, though he said nothing, Alda knew that he liked children. She thought that he had none of his own, or Mrs. would not have made that remark about children making a mess. She’s too right, thought Alda, they do; and if you don’t like them that’s your first thought about them; mess, and a noise.
    “Was it you who kindly left some chopped wood for us?” she went on. “I was so pleased when I found it yesterday.”
    “Well, I thought you might be glad of some, it was such a nasty raw day, you’d want to get a fire going. I had one of the Italians chop it and take it up,” he answered, a little awkwardly.
    “You have two of them, haven’t you? Meg and I met them in the woods the other day and they told us they were working here.”
    “‘Working’ isn’t quite the word. They eat all they can get and do as little as they dare.”
    Alda nodded sympathetically. At Pagets she had heard that many of the prisoners were hard-working and expert in hedging, ditching and other country crafts, but she was far too expert herself at getting on well with men to intrude a controversial statement into a pleasant conversation.
    In a moment Mr. Hoadley added grudgingly:
    “As a matter of fact, Fabrio (that’s the red-headed one) is a first-rate carpenter but he’s bone lazy. They aren’t much use to me; I’ve often thought about applying for a Land Girl.”
    Alda made some suitable reply, and then inquired if she also had to thank him for the books left upon the doorstep?
    “No, that wasn’t me. I’ve no time for reading; never have cared for it much, either. That would be Mr. Waite, I expect. He lives round the back of you. He’s got some books.”
    “Has he a farm, too?”
    “A sort of a farm. It’s a chicken farm.”
    “Oh yes; we can see the little houses from our back windows.”
    “Yes. Two hundred fowls he’s got up there. Nasty, dirty, heartbreaking work it is, too,” ended Mr. Hoadley feelingly, and Alda now recalled seeing a distant form; a sexless, sack-draped, booted shape, moving slowly among the fowl houses and wire enclosures early that morning. Naturally, she had not connected it with In Touch with the Transcendent .
    “This gate needs a drop of oil; I’ll see to that for you,” said Mr. Hoadley, marching up to the front door and setting down the cans in the porch, and Alda followed, thinking that life at Pine Cottage must certainly be pleasanter for the fact that this giant, whose burred Sussex “r”s were comforting as the scent of hay, was their neighbour.
    The dog Ruffler, who had followed him, now came up to her and leant his fore-paws upon her skirt, gazing up into her face.
    “You’re a very handsome, fascinating boy,” she said to him softly, caressing his ears, while Meg, who had been set down in the porch beside the milk, now transferred her gaze from the farmer to the dog. “Will he behave himself among all those chickens, Mr. Hoadley?”
    “He’d better,” said Mr. Hoadley, giving Ruffler a severe look . “That’s why I take him up there with me, to teach him. [’m ‘walking’ him, you see, for Mr. Mead down at Rush House; he’s come up to stay with me for a bit and learn how to follow and fetch and do what he’s told. Training him, it is.”
    He said “Good morning,” smiled at Meg (who gratified Alda by smiling broadly in return), touched his hat and went off into the rain followed by the dog. Alda