a word to insult you."

"Would they not? The very children in the school whisper at me. Let
me pass, I say. It has not yet come to that, that I should be stopped
in my egress and ingress. They have--bailed me; and while their bail
lasts, I may go where I will."

"Oh, Josiah, what words to me! Have I ever stopped your liberty?
Would I not give my life to secure it?"

"Let me go, then, now. I tell you that I have business in hand."

"But I will go with you. I will be ready in an instant."

"You go! Why should you go? Are there not the children for you to
mind?"

"There is only Jane."

"Stay with her, then. Why should you go about the parish?" She
still held him by the cloak, and looked anxiously up into his face.
"Woman," he said, raising his voice, "what is it that you dread? I
command you to tell me what it is you fear?" He had now taken hold
of her by the shoulder, slightly thrusting her from him, so that he
might see her face by the dim light of the single candle. "Speak, I
say. What is it that you think that I shall do?"

"Dearest, I know that you will be better at home, better with me,
than you can be on such a morning as this out in the cold damp air."

"And is that all?" He looked hard at her, while she returned his gaze
with beseeching loving eyes. "It there nothing behind, that you will
not tell me?"

She paused for a moment before she replied. She had never lied to
him. She could not lie to him. "I wish you knew my heart towards
you," she said, "with all and everything in it."

"I know your heart well, but I want to know your mind. Why would you
persuade me not to go out among my poor?"

"Because it will be bad for you to be out alone in the dark lanes, in
the mud and wet, thinking of your sorrow. You will brood over it till
you will lose your senses through the intensity of your grief. You
will stand out in the cold air, forgetful of everything around you,
till your limbs will be numbed, and your blood chilled,--"

"And then--?"

"Oh, Josiah, do not hold me like that, and look at me so angrily."

"And even then I will bear my burden till the Lord in His mercy shall
see fit to relieve me. Even then I will endure, though a bare bodkin
or a leaf of hemlock would put an end to it. Let me pass on; you need
fear nothing."

She did let him pass without another word, and he went out of the
house, shutting the door after him noiselessly, and closing the
wicket-gate of the garden. For a while she sa