eature--whom he, her natural master, had been free to scold
or caress at will? At bottom he had always been conscious in regard to
her of a silent but immeasurable superiority, whether as mere man to
mere woman, or as the Christian to the sinner.

Now--he dared scarcely touch her. As she lay in this new-found dignity,
the proud peace of her look intimidated, accused him--would always
accuse him till he too rested as she rested now, clad for the end. Yet
she had bade him kiss her--and he obeyed her--groaning within himself,
incapable altogether, out of sheer abasement, of saying those words she
had asked of him. Then he sat down beside her, motionless. John tried
once or twice to speak to him, but Isaac shook his head impatiently. At
last the mere presence of Bolderfield in the room seemed to anger him.
He threw the old man such dark and restless looks that Mary Anne
perceived them, and, with instinctive understanding, persuaded John to
go.

She, however, must needs go with him, and she went. The other woman
stayed. Every now and then she looked furtively at Isaac.

'If some one don't look arter 'im,' she said to herself, ''ee'll go as
his father and his brothers went afore him. 'Ee's got the look on it
awready. Wheniver it's light I'll go fetch Muster Drew.'

With the first rays of the morning Bolderfield got up from the bed in
Mary Anne's cottage, where she had placed him a couple of hours before,
imploring him to lie still and rest himself. He slipped on his coat, the
only garment he had taken off, and taking his stick he crept down to the
cottage door. Mary Anne, who had gone out to fetch some bread, had left
it ajar. He opened it and stood on the threshold looking out.

The storm of the night was over, and already a milder breeze was
beginning to melt the newly-fallen snow. The sun was striking cheerfully
from the hill behind him upon the glistening surfaces of the distant
fields; the old labourer felt a hint of spring in the air. It brought
with it a hundred vague associations, and filled him with a boundless
despair. What would become of him now--penniless and old and feeble? The
horror of Bessie's death no longer stood between him and his own pain,
and would soon even cease to protect her from his hatred.

Mary Anne came back along the lane, carrying a jug and a loaf. Her
little face was all blanched and drawn with weariness; yet when she saw
him her look kindled. She ran up to him.

'What did yer come dow