past, that the story that had just reached Jacob's ears was a dreadful fact. "Some folks has evil tongues when there's no call to have 'em," she went on, the solar rays glorifying the white weariness of her face. "Maggie was always a good girl in Teignbury, and her father and mother and all her friends afore her; they was all born and bred here, and lived and died respectable. I can remember 'em years and years back, afore you was born, Jacob, an' it seems ontrue to natur' as she should forget her past. If I was you, I'd not judge her harsh, Jacob."

"No, no, I'm not seekin' to judge her, mother. No, no . . . no, no." He shook his head as he sat looking out upon the shining green world; then, as though speaking to himself, he said: "I'll go east when dusk sets in an' ask her mother."

"You're not good friends wi' her mother, Jacob."

"No; I remember that.

leastways not while I'm by.

know the truth."

She's not a pleasant-spoken woman:

But she's her mother-she ought to

"Mothers don't allays like to speak the truth, Jacob.'

"Ay, I've not forgot that. But there's no help for 'em sometimes; an' when their daughters is in trouble it's small comfort as false lies 'll bring 'em." He went on with his meal in an absent-minded way. When he had finished he began to get ready to set out.

"I think as you'd best wait, as you said, till dusk, Jacob," his mother said.

"It's wastin' time," he replied. "It'll be sundown when I get there."

"Nay, if you'll be advised by your mother, you'll wait, my lad. There's mockers i' the village; an' it's ill being laughed at when sorrow's come t' your door."

"Yes, I'll wait a while," Jacob said.

II.

HE left home, after all, before the sun went down. It was a walk of some three miles and a half to the somewhat secluded cottage in which Maggie Dell's mother had lived during her widowhood. But the night was very pleasant. The air was so buoyant that when Jacoh got to the eastern end of the village he could distinctly hear the cries of the wild fowl high up amid the misty solitudes of the great Teignbury hills.

He rested several times on the way, and it was nearing

nine o'clock when he reached his destination-a diminutive tworoomed dwelling that only became visible when he got close to it by reason of the grotesque mass of bushes and fruit and other trees which for years had kept up a brave struggle for breathing space all round it. There were two queer little windows in front of Mrs. Dell's abode, with an even queerer door between them; and from one of these windows a faint light, which Jacob knew to be firelight, was shining. He went up to the window (there was only a narrow flower border before it) and looked in. A woman was sitting alone in the firelight in the room. The shine from the grate was so feeble that Jacob could barely distinguish the outline of Mrs. Dell's face. She looked back at him through the window, but made him no sign of welcome. He opened the door, without knocking, in his quiet, deliberate way, and went down the stone-floored passage between the two rooms. He said: "Good-evening, Mrs. Dell," with gentle courtesy, as he limped into the room where Maggie's mother sat; but his salutation was not returned. Mrs. Dell remained seated, her back to her visitor, her face to the fire, her whole attitude expressive of protest against this intrusion. It was indeed in her heart to say: "Good-evening!' Good-night, I should think, for decent folks!" but she decided that the more dignified course was to receive this ugly fellow with severe silence.

She was softly rocking a cradle. Jacob had seen her so engaged on previous occasions when he had mustered up courage to visit the home of the merry-hearted, bright-eyed girl whose being seemed, by some mysterious process, to be infused in his own. The mistress of the Teignbury mill was another daughter of Mrs. Dell's; she was a Morris by marriage, and had been endowed with a large and tempestuous family, one or more of whom the grandmother usually took care of as a sort of company in her widowed loneliness. The children she took were generally the youngest, for the grown-up bairns found that they could not get on at all pleasantly with grandma.

Jacob seated himself behind her, a little to her left, near to the cradle, the wooden canopy of which he now and then touched timidly and apparently unconsciously as he spoke.

"I've come to ask about Maggie, Mrs. Dell," he began, in the tone of a reverent-minded man speaking of sacred things. He waited a minute or so to see if she would say anything that might prevent his uttering the word of her shame; but Mrs. Dell did not speak : did not give the slightest indication that she was aware of his

presence. "I'm told," he went on, holding his great hand above the head of the cradle, as though to protect or bless the babe there, "I was told this afternoon in the garden for the first time-I'll tell you who it was as said it, if it's false-that Maggie's had a child since she's been in service at Corborough. No. . . I'll not believe it! But it's talked about in the village, Mrs. Dell, and if there's anybody in Teignbury as should know what's true and what's a lie. about Maggie's character it's her own mother . . . an' if you'll kindly tell me whether or no . . . for there's pain an' grief upon me, Mrs. Dell. . . .”

She could scarcely hear his concluding words, but she quite understood his meaning.

"Well, I don't know as you've a right to ask sich a question, Jacob Laur! But sin' you hev' asked-forgettin' what the wise. proverb says about folks mindin' their own business !—well, it's true as Maggie's become a mother. I've not seen the child; I've not seen her; so you needn't worrit me an' yourself askin' no more questions!"

And she turned her back upon him again, as though resolved not to discuss the painful subject. It did not, indeed, seem as if Jacob were going to ask any more questions. His outstretched hand had fallen on his knee; there was that in his posture which seemed to tell of anguish too deep for words-and, to say truth, Jacob was at no time able to express his thoughts with much felicity. He sat as still and as silent as a stone for some minutes. Mrs. Dell continued to rock the cradle. But as the time went on, and Jacob did not speak, did not stir, she began to fidget in her chair, and at last glanced round at her visitor. His head was bowed; Mrs. Dell fancied for a moment that he had fallen asleep.

"Well, Jacob Laur, there's no call, as I can see, for you to sit there on other folks' chairs as if you was a log o' wood shaped summat like a man !" she said sharply.

He raised his hand to his head; he appeared to be giddy, or to have forgotten where he was.

"Ay, it's great wickedness," he said. But his voice was free from reproach. It was as though he had meant to say: "There's been great wickedness-great wrong-poor Maggie! poor Maggie !

"Well, you needn't preach!" said Mrs. Dell. "It's not your place; an' if that's all you've come for, then you're not welcome to stay!"

"I'll not trouble you long, Mrs. Dell. . . . Have you been to Corborough to see Maggie since this happened?"

"No, I hevn't been to Corborough to see her, if you'd like to be inquisitive to know! She's no more child o' mine; she's made her bed wi' her own sinfulness, an' she'll ha' to lie on't!"

"An' has she not writ to you, Mrs. Dell?"

"Oh, yes, she's writ often enough. She's writ too often; she sent a letter on'y this very mornin'. I expec' she's nothin' else to do but waste stamps and writin'-paper-for she'll never get no letters answered from me."

"Would you mind lettin' me see one o' her letters-maybe the one she writ this morning?" Jacob said.

"I'd be clever if I did! It's i' the fire-it's dust an' ashes by this time, I'm thinkin'. I put it i' the fire wi'out readin' it; an' that's how I've served all the letters she's took the pains to send sin' she brought this disgrace upon me and herself."”

"How old is the child?" Jacob asked.

"Near three months, I suppose. It's no matter o' mine; I don't care how old or how young it may be! It was born afore I know'd. Her sister, Mrs. Morris, as she's disgraced wi' the rest o' us, saw her in Corborough this week-it was Monday afternoon-in the High Street, an' she said as she was comin' home, as she couldn't stay i' her place; but she's thought better on't-she knows, for I've sent her a message that I'll never hev' her wi' that nameless child i' my house; never, never shall she darken my doors again!"

"But is that behavin' as a mother should to her own flesh an' blood, Mrs. Dell?"

She turned upon him indignantly. "Well, whether it is or whether it isn't, I'm not goin' to argy the point wi' you, Jacob Laur! I'm recollectin' as you used to come about Maggie when she was at home--"

Ah, she was too young to leave home!" he broke in with a kind of sob.

"An' that's my business, if you don't mind! But though you tried to court her, she gave you small encouragement, as far as I could see so you've no call to feel 'grieved at what's happened."

...

"It's for Maggie's sake," he said. "Think o' her future, Mrs. Dell think o' the awful shadow on her life for ever

ever . . . i' this world . . . i' the next . . ."

ay, for

"I've a notion as you'd be wise t' let the next world take care o' itself, Jacob Laur," Maggie's mother said. "It's profanity as you're speakin', an' I'll not hev' the Lord's name taken i' vain i' my house." "But what's to become o' her, Mrs. Dell? . . . an' you her mother! . .

"She'll hev' to shift for herself. I'm not responsible for her sin ; an' I'm not goin' to bear the consequences of it-I couldn't if I would; the Scriptur' says plain, as them as commits sin must suffer for their sin."

"Ay, I've read that i' the Scriptur'," Jacob said in a tone of piteous resignation. "But I've also read that we should bear one another's burdens, as that's the law o' Christ."

"I tell you I'm not goin' to argy," Mrs. Dell replied, and looking down to see if the child were asleep, she stopped rocking the cradle, drew it cautiously into the middle of the hearth, and rose from her chair. "If you've no objection, Jacob Laur, I'd take it as a favour if you'd keep your eye on the child here while I run along to its mother for some lamp-oil. It's only fair as she should let me hev' some, for it's onnatural t' expec' as I should provide her childer wi' everything. You know the distance; an' I'll not stay when I get there I'll be back as soon's my legs 'll carry me. I'd ask you to go for me, but I want to speak to Mary." She took a shawl from a drawer in an ancient piece of furniture in one corner of the room; the fire had burned so low that when she was stooping down to the drawer Jacob could not see her at all. "If the child should happen to wake just tilt your toe to the cradle and give it a rock; it's easy quieted by 'em as has some patience to show." She drew the shawl over her head and shoulders, holding it under her chin with both hands, and left the house. The room was momentarily darkened still more this was when Mrs. Dell was passing the window. Then Jacob heard the click of the iron catch on the gate, and after that the silence was profound.

III.

HE would have waited there passively, submissively for hours. He had no care at all for time now; one day would be like another day, and all the days of his life would be wrapt in shadow, and he would have Maggie's sorrow with him until he went to his grave. So he continued to sit just where Maggie's mother had left him ; much as might a faithful collie that had been bidden not to rise. He felt in a vague way that he was doing Maggie a little service.

That was his uppermost, his absorbing thought-What can I do to help her now that the hand of affliction has been laid upon her so sorely? That he had a right to reproach her never entered his mind. If he had such a right, he had no such will; such of his reflections