led in little pools down into her neck, and seemed to find out all
the weak parts of her dress. Her thin black shawl was covered with
snow; her bonnet was no longer black, but white. Her heart began to
beat at first too loudly, then feebly; she tottered forward, stumbling
as one in a dream. She was cold, chilled through and through;
bitterly, bitterly cold. Suddenly, without knowing it, she put her
foot on a piece of orange-peel; she slipped, and the next moment lay
prone in the soft snow. Her fall took away her last remnant of
strength; try as she would, she found she could not rise. She raised
her voice to call for assistance, and presently a stout laboring man
came up and bent over the little prostrate woman.

"Let me help you to get up, ma'am," he said politely.

He caught hold of her swollen right hand. The sudden pain forced a
sharp scream from her lips.

"Not that hand, please, sir; the other," she said. She put out her
left hand.

"Nay, I'll lift you altogether," he said. "Why, you are no weight at
all. Are you badly hurt, ma'am?"

"No, no, it's nothin'," said Grannie, panting, and breathing with
difficulty.

"And where shall I take you to? You can't walk--you are not to attempt
it. Is your home anywhere near here, ma'am?"

In spite of all her pain and weakness, a flush of shame came into the
old cheeks.

"It is nigh here, very nigh," said Grannie, "but it aint my home; it's
Beverley workhouse, please, sir."

"All right," said the man. He did not notice Grannie's shame.

The next moment he had pulled the bell at the dreary gates, and Grannie
was taken in. She was conveyed straight up to the infirmary.

CHAPTER XV.

It wanted but a week to Jim Hardy's wedding day. Preparations were in
full swing, and the Clays' house was, so to speak, turned topsy-turvy.
Jim was considered a most lucky man. He was to get five hundred pounds
with his bride. With that five hundred pounds Louisa proposed that Jim
should set up in business for himself. He and she would own a small
haberdasher's shop. They could stock it well, and even put by a
nest-egg for future emergencies. Jim consented to all her proposals.
He felt depressed and unlike himself. In short, there never was a more
unwilling bridegroom. He had never loved Louisa. She had always been
repugnant to him. In a moment of pique he had asked her to marry him,
and his repentance began half an hour after his engagement. Still he
ma