ould love me,
but that you would not marry me, and I said I would never ask you again.
I shall keep my word, sweetheart. I shall not ask; I shall take without
asking. You love me; that is all I care for. The little boy came between
last time; now nothing does."

He took the woman in his arms and kissed her, but the next moment he was
flying to where water lay in a ditch, for his unexpected attitude had
overpowered Chris. She raised her hands to his shoulders, uttered a
faint cry, then slipped heavily out of his arms in a faint. The man
rushed this way and that, the child sat and howled noisily, the woman
remained long unconscious, and heavy rain began to fall out of the
darkness; yet, to his dying day that desolate spot of earth brought
light to Martin's eyes as often as he passed it.

Chris presently recovered her senses, and spoke words that made her
lover's heart leap. She uttered them in a sad, low voice, but her hand
was in his, pressing it close the while.

"Awften an' awften I've axed the A'mighty to give me wan little glint o'
knawledge as how 'twould all end. If I'd knawed! But I never guessed how
big your sawl was, Martin. I never thought you was the manner of man to
love a woman arter that."

"God knows what's in my heart, Chris."

"I'll tell 'e everything some day. Lookin' back it doan't 'pear no ways
wicked, though it may seem so in cold daylight to cold hearts."

"Come, come with me, for the rain grows harder. I know where I can hire
a covered carriage at an inn. 'Tis only five minutes farther on, and
poor Tim's unhappy."

"He'm hungry. You won't be hard 'pon my li'l bwoy if I come to 'e,
Martin?"

"You know as well as I can tell you. There's one other thing. About
Chagford, Chris? Are you afraid of it? I'll turn my back on it if you
like. I'll take you to Okehampton now if you would rather go there."

"Never! 'Tis for you to care, not me. So you knaw an' forgive--what's
the rest? Shadows. But let me hold your hand an' keep my tongue still.
I'm sick an' fainty wi' this gert turn o' the wheel. 'T is tu deep for
any words."

He felt not less uplifted, but his joy was a man's. It rolled and
tumbled over his being like the riotous west wind. Under such stress his
mind could find no worthy thing to say, and yet he was intoxicated and
had to speak. He was very unlike himself. He uttered platitudes; then
the weight of Timothy upon his arm reminded him that the child existed.

"He shall go to a good