isposition; but no disposition is a security from evil wishes
to a man whose happiness hangs on duplicity.

"Hush, hush!" said Mr. Crackenthorp. "Go out into the hall there.
I'll fetch the doctor to you. Found a woman in the snow--and thinks
she's dead," he added, speaking low to the Squire. "Better say as
little about it as possible: it will shock the ladies. Just tell them
a poor woman is ill from cold and hunger. I'll go and fetch Kimble."

By this time, however, the ladies had pressed forward, curious to know
what could have brought the solitary linen-weaver there under such
strange circumstances, and interested in the pretty child, who, half
alarmed and half attracted by the brightness and the numerous company,
now frowned and hid her face, now lifted up her head again and looked
round placably, until a touch or a coaxing word brought back the frown,
and made her bury her face with new determination.

"What child is it?" said several ladies at once, and, among the rest,
Nancy Lammeter, addressing Godfrey.

"I don't know--some poor woman's who has been found in the snow, I
believe," was the answer Godfrey wrung from himself with a terrible
effort. ("After all, _am_ I certain?" he hastened to add, silently,
in anticipation of his own conscience.)

"Why, you'd better leave the child here, then, Master Marner," said
good-natured Mrs. Kimble, hesitating, however, to take those dingy
clothes into contact with her own ornamented satin bodice. "I'll tell
one o' the girls to fetch it."

"No--no--I can't part with it, I can't let it go," said Silas,
abruptly. "It's come to me--I've a right to keep it."

The proposition to take the child from him had come to Silas quite
unexpectedly, and his speech, uttered under a strong sudden impulse,
was almost like a revelation to himself: a minute before, he had no
distinct intention about the child.

"Did you ever hear the like?" said Mrs. Kimble, in mild surprise, to
her neighbour.

"Now, ladies, I must trouble you to stand aside," said Mr. Kimble,
coming from the card-room, in some bitterness at the interruption, but
drilled by the long habit of his profession into obedience to
unpleasant calls, even when he was hardly sober.

"It's a nasty business turning out now, eh, Kimble?" said the Squire.
"He might ha' gone for your young fellow--the 'prentice, there--what's
his name?"

"Might? aye--what's the use of talking about might?" growled uncle
Kimble, hasteni