the stitches of her sampler, said others had their reasons for feeling that way too. Here, however, her husband returned, and at once caught her up. Fancies were fancies, he declared, and facts were facts. It was his duty, as a minister of religion and one under considerable obligations to his lordship, to discourage silly and dangerous chatter. He had been pointing out to her ladyship how ill it would fare with the children if, in these lean days, they went running wild and hungry. He had been at pains to ascertain that they had been all christened before their indentures were made out; if they were ill-used in any way, some, if not all, would sicken and die. Little children, whom our Blessed Redeemer had condescendingly suffered to come unto Him, could ill brook harsh handling. But never once in the five years he had been in Crutchdale had he been called upon to read the burial service over an apprentice.

At this point Lady Evangeline turned very white, for the words, "buried like vermin" of Mr. Trevenna's letter, came red-hot to her mind.

She rose, meaning to excuse herself and seek the air, when her mind was sharply diverted by the action of Sophy. Until this moment the child had been seated on her little stool, silently sewing her sampler, and seeming as mouse-like as the powers that then ruled childhood could desire.

"Indeed, but they are ill-used," she cried, looking up red and defiant.

Sophia!" exclaimed both the scandalized parents. Her mother added, "Where's your manners, child? You were not spoke to!" while Mr. Robinson took his stand by the door.

"Nay, let her speak," said Lady Evangeline with more than a hint of command, yet adding gently, "I beg of you... please! Come here, my dear, and tell me what you mean."

She sat again and held out her hand to the child.

"Stand up, Sophia, when her ladyship addresses you!" said her mother, more gently than before.

The quaking child, hardly less astonished than her parents at her own audacity, set down her work, rose, dropped a bob-curtsey and, putting hands behind her back, looked with scared eyes from her mother to her father, and then at the grand lady. Her father drew himself up with an injured expression, and felt if his bands were straight, while her mother glanced anxiously at him. But her ladyship looked wonderfully kind and so eager to hear what she had to tell that Sophy plucked up fresh courage; though her cheeks burned still hotter and her heart was thumping her all to bits, she spoke stoutly into the beautiful face.

"If you please, my lady, I went out afore five two mornings, because I wanted to see the children go to work and the ones coming back from the mill to the 'prentice-house who'd been all night at it. And it was still darkish, so I couldn't be quite sure of everything but there was a man a-driving them and I was mighty afraid when I saw his face.

"You said it was dark, Sophia," began the clergyman. But Sophy was ready for him and told the lady, who nodded gently to encourage her, that she could see his face by his lanthorn-light and the mill windows, clear enough!

She spoke in little more than gasps. Lady Evangeline put her hand on the little angular shoulder in its shabby frock of blue and red check and frayed black bows on the shoulders. "And the children, what did they look like, Sophy dear?" she asked quietly, what did they do?

They were all a long way in front of the lanthorna-shuffling and a-scrambling along-to get away from the man's whip, I should think. I tried to see themall like shadows, they were, scrambling along and ragged --but I could hear them blubbing and whimpering plain enough."

Lady Evangeline said nothing for a moment. She sat looking at and beyond the child and the child stood looking up at her. Mr. Robinson was the first to speak.

"It would have been presumptuous of me to refuse your ladyship's request in respect of my daughter's chatter," he said in ill-concealed annoyance; "in any other circumstances such saucy gossip on her part would merit chastisement."

Lady Evangeline drew the little girl very close. 'But things being as they are," she said, "you will admit, Mr. Robinson, that pity and courage merit our respect, even if they should be-as I think they are not here-mistaken."

Sophy suddenly burst into tears. "Indeed, madam -my lady, indeed, father and mother-I am not mistaken!" she cried in passionate appeal. "Indeed, the mill-children are mightily ill-used."

Then and there the friendship was struck, and the child was allowed to put on her Sunday frock quickly and be driven away to the Dower House. There she remained until Lady Evangeline's departure for London four days afterwards, and two days after the conversation with her father in which he had discovered the urgent need of her consulting Mr. Cornroach.

CHAPTER XXXIII

BLOOD-GUILTINESS

R. TREVENNA was making a fair recovery at

MR the Dower House of Welton Priory. This

he knew; but the circumstances that brought him there were not all remembered. How he had been injured and Watchman killed, as they told him, he could not recall. Only gradually were his adventures in the wood and the mill emerging from dream-like vagueness into clarity of fact.

At last, but only on the day before her departure, was Lady Evangeline allowed a word with him. The apothecary had warned her against a too rapid resuscitation of an enfeebled memory, though he apprehended no permanent harm to the brain. He volunteered his opinion that the poor gentleman had come to solicit help from his lordship and, frenzied by destitution, had forced his way into the mill. There he was caught in the machinery, after his dog, doubtless rabid, had attacked an overseer and a spinner, both of whom, he was glad to assure her ladyship, were by his prompt treatment recovered and all fear of hydrophobia averted. The dangerous dog, she would be glad to learn, had been destroyed.

As Lady Evangeline approached the door of her largest guest room, Mrs. Loveday came out. The reverend gentleman was sleeping, she told her lady in whispers but, indeed, her ladyship could do him no manner of harm, so long as he came awake of himself.

This was the apothecary's strict order. She would come back any moment her ladyship touched the bell. The sensible woman concluded her advice to her nursery charge of years gone by with a curtsey to the great lady, and then held the door open for her and left.

For a few seconds, Lady Evangeline stood at the door looking across to the couch drawn up near the window so that the sick man might survey the spring world beyond. Then she silently went nearer and looked down upon him.

His appearance smote her. Wrapped in a gaudy brocaded dressing-gown of her father's-the right sleeve of which, his fore-arm being in splints, lay empty outside the coverlet-he looked shrunken on that huge couch. The bone of his temples stood in ridges, his closed eyes lay in deep hollows, and his cheeks were furrowed with two lines of suffering that looked like deep scars. Perhaps, she thought with a jealous pang, he was craving for the comfort of his own little bare room with its crucifix and the wider outlook over the sea! How fully she realized that the luxuries of Welton were quite superfluous to him! But at least he was alive; and he was there in her house, her honoured, her beloved guest.

As she watched him, his eyes opened-not upon her but the hills, where the woods were swelling into amethystine browns at the sun's encouragement. It was the first week in March: blackbirds and thrushes were making adventure with song and wing and nestbuilding. Her full heart forbade word, she could only touch his shoulder gently with her hand. He moved his head very weakly to look at her. He did not seem surprised, nor did he speak only there came a light from his deep eyes and an irradiation of the whole tragic face. Before she could control herself sufficiently for speech, he had feebly turned his head again towards the woods: