s. William Transom."

"Come along to the house." 'Lizabeth turned abruptly and led the way.

Mrs. William Transom gathered up her carpet-bag and bedraggled skirts
and followed, sobbing still, but in _diminuendo_. Inside the kitchen
'Lizabeth faced round on her again.

"So you'm William's wife."

"I am; an' small comfort to say so, seein' this is how I'm served.
Reely, now, I'm not fit to be seen."

"Bless the woman, who cares here what you look like? Take off those
fal-lals, an' sit in your petticoat by the fire, here; you ain't wet
through--on'y your feet; and here's a dry pair o' stockings, if you've
none i' the bag. You must be possessed, to come trampin' over High
Compton in them gingerbread things." She pointed scornfully at the
stranger's boots.

Mrs. William Transom, finding her notions of gentility thus ridiculed,
acquiesced.

"An' now," resumed 'Lizabeth, when her visitor was seated by the fire
pulling off her damp stockings, "there's rum an' there's tea.
Which will you take to warm yoursel'?"

Mrs. William elected to take rum; and 'Lizabeth noted that she helped
herself with freedom. She made no comment, however, but set about
making tea for herself; and, then, drawing up her chair to the table,
leant her chin on her hand and intently regarded her visitor.

"Where's William?" inquired Mrs. Transom.

"Up-stairs."

"Askin' his father's pardon?"

"Well," 'Lizabeth grimly admitted, "that's like enough; but you needn't
fret about them."

Mrs. William showed no disposition to fret. On the contrary, under the
influence of the rum she became weakly jovial and a trifle garrulous--
confiding to 'Lizabeth that, though married to William for four years,
she had hitherto been blessed with no children; that they lived in
barracks, which she disliked, but put up with because she doted on a red
coat; that William had always been meaning to tell his father, but
feared to anger him, "because, my dear," she frankly explained,
"I was once connected with the stage"--a form of speech behind which
'Lizabeth did not pry; that, a fortnight before Christmas, William had
made up his mind at last, "'for,' as he said to me, 'the old man must be
nearin' his end, and then the farm'll be mine by rights;'" that he had
obtained his furlough two days back, and come by coach all the way to
this doleful spot--for doleful she must call it, though she _would_ have
to live there some day--with no shops nor theayters, of which