it, and Bathsheba closed the door, and walked
slowly down the lane till she came opposite to Gabriel's cottage,
where he now lived alone, having left Coggan's house through being
pinched for room. There was a light in one window only, and that
was downstairs. The shutters were not closed, nor was any blind or
curtain drawn over the window, neither robbery nor observation being
a contingency which could do much injury to the occupant of the
domicile. Yes, it was Gabriel himself who was sitting up: he was
reading. From her standing-place in the road she could see him
plainly, sitting quite still, his light curly head upon his hand, and
only occasionally looking up to snuff the candle which stood beside
him. At length he looked at the clock, seemed surprised at the
lateness of the hour, closed his book, and arose. He was going to
bed, she knew, and if she tapped it must be done at once.

Alas for her resolve! She felt she could not do it. Not for worlds
now could she give a hint about her misery to him, much less ask him
plainly for information on the cause of Fanny's death. She must
suspect, and guess, and chafe, and bear it all alone.

Like a homeless wanderer she lingered by the bank, as if lulled and
fascinated by the atmosphere of content which seemed to spread from
that little dwelling, and was so sadly lacking in her own. Gabriel
appeared in an upper room, placed his light in the window-bench,
and then--knelt down to pray. The contrast of the picture with her
rebellious and agitated existence at this same time was too much for
her to bear to look upon longer. It was not for her to make a truce
with trouble by any such means. She must tread her giddy distracting
measure to its last note, as she had begun it. With a swollen heart
she went again up the lane, and entered her own door.

More fevered now by a reaction from the first feelings which Oak's
example had raised in her, she paused in the hall, looking at the
door of the room wherein Fanny lay. She locked her fingers, threw
back her head, and strained her hot hands rigidly across her
forehead, saying, with a hysterical sob, "Would to God you would
speak and tell me your secret, Fanny! ... Oh, I hope, hope it is not
true that there are two of you! ... If I could only look in upon you
for one little minute, I should know all!"

A few moments passed, and she added, slowly, "AND I WILL."

Bathsheba in after times could never gauge the mood which