did. I never could do enough for him when he was well, and now that I

have got my chance I should be ashamed if I did not make the best of it. Poor dear, he is as much to me as ever, and more too--husband and child all in one." And she said it over tenderly to herself, "Poor dear!"

But this was Jennifer's sentiment, and her sentiments were sacred and kept mostly for home use. It was the philosopher that met you more commonly. You spoke to her pitifully of her husband's affliction, and were almost startled at the tone of her cheery voice.

"Yes, 'tis sad. But bless you, think of what _might_ ha' been. If he was in racks of torments all day long, and me at his side doing nothing else but poulticing and trying to give him a bit of ease! Or if we was both like he is--me and he, too, a-setting by the fire and never able to do anything for each other, whatever should us have done then? Only to think of it. And there--it might ha' been; of course, it might ha' been. What a mercy!" And Jennifer lifted up her hands. "What a mercy!"

You complained of the miserable cottage. But Jennifer was ready to point out its advantages, until the tumble-down place seemed to grow quite considerate and kindly.

"Well, you see it isn't half so bad as it _might_ be. The cracks don't let the wind blow in where we do sit to. And the rain don't drip in where we do sleep to. _That_ would be bad. And it _might_ ha' done; of course, it _might_ ha' done. What a mercy!" And again Jennifer's hands were uplifted.

You began to pity her for the children's sake. But a merry laugh cut that short in a moment.

"Yes, I often think about that," laughed Jennifer, "_there might ha' been fourteen of them_. And, bless you, whatever should I ha' done if there had a-been fourteen!" And Jennifer lifted up her hands and laughed again, and then slapped them down upon her knees. "Fourteen of them! Why, where should us all have slept to? And think of the eating all round, and the clothes and all. Fourteen! And it _might_ ha' been. What a mercy!"

You talked pathetically about her work in the fields--the dreariness of it and the weariness, bending with hoe from morning to night; or kneeling at the weeds till all the limbs ached. But Jennifer was more than a match for you. "Ah, that's it. That's what I always say. To think that it should be such hard work and all that, and that I should have the strength for it. Now, if I was one of them sort that is always ailin' and failin', instead of being so strong as a horse! And I _might_ ha' been; of course, I _might_ ha' been. What a mercy! Why, there's some as couldn't walk there and back, for 'tis sometimes three miles there and three miles back, and there's some as couldn't do it when they got there, for the weeds be terrible strong sometimes. And there's some as couldn't bear it, east wind and rain and snow. And I _might_ ha' been one of them sort. What a mercy!"

This was Jennifer's philosophy.