and, taking his stick, he crept down
to the cottage door. Mary Anne, who had gone out to fetch some bread,
had left it ajar. He opened it and stood on the threshold, looking out.

The storm of the night was over, and already a milder breeze was
beginning to melt the newly-fallen snow. The sun was striking
cheerfully from the hill behind him upon the glistening surfaces of the
distant fields; the old labourer felt a hint of spring in the air. It
brought with it a hundred vague associations, and filled him with a
boundless despair. What would become of him now--penniless and old and
feeble? The horror of Bessie's death no longer stood between him and
his own pain, and would soon even cease to protect her from his hatred.

Mary Anne came back along the lane, carrying a jug and a loaf. Her
little face was all blanched and drawn with weariness, yet, when she
saw him, her look kindled. She ran up to him.

"What did yer come down for, John? I'd ha' taken yer yer breakfast in
yer bed."

He looked at her, then at the food. His eyes filled with tears.

"I can't pay yer for it," he said, pointing with his stick. "I can't
pay yer for it."

Mary Anne led him in, scolding and coaxing him with her gentle,
trembling voice. She made him sit down while she blew up the fire; she
fed and tended him. When she had forced him to eat something, she came
behind him and laid her hand on his shoulder.

"John," she said, clearing her throat. "John, yer shan't want while
I'm livin'. I promised Eliza I wouldn't forget yer, and I won't. I
can work yet--there's plenty o' people want me to work for 'em--an'
maybe, when yer get over this, you'll work a bit too now and again.
We'll hold together, John--anyways. While I live and keep my 'elth yer
shan't want. An' yer'll forgive Bessie"--she broke into sudden
sobbing. "Oh! I'll never 'ear a crule word about Bessie in my 'ouse,
_never_!"

John put his arms on the table and hid his face upon them. He could
not speak of forgiveness, nor could he thank her for her promise. His
chief feeling was an intense wish to sleep; but, as Mary Anne dried her
tears and began to go about her household work, the sound of her step,
the sense of her loving presence near him, began, for the first time,
to relax the aching grip upon his heart. He had always been weak and
dependent, in spite of his thrift and his money. He would be far more
weak and dependent now and henceforward. But again, he