ng, but he knew that she felt; then mother and child were
gone, and Martin, dismissing his vehicle, proceeded to Monks Barton with
the news that all was well.

Mrs. Blanchard heard her daughter's story and its sequel. She exhibited
some emotion, but no grief. The sorrow she may have suffered was never
revealed to any eye by word or tear.

"I reckoned of late days theer was Blanchard blood to the child," she
said, "an' I won't hide from you I thought more'n wance you was so like
to be the mother as Will the faither of un. Go to bed now, if you caan't
eat, an' taake the bwoy, an' thank God for lining your dark cloud with
this silver. If He forgives 'e, an' this here gude grey Martin forgives
'e, who be I to fret? Worse'n you've been forgived at fust hand by the
Lard when He travelled on flesh-an'-blood feet 'mong men; an' folks have
short memories for dates, an' them as sniggers now will be dust or
dotards 'fore Tim's grawed. When you've been a lawful wife ten year an'
more, who's gwaine to mind this? Not little Tim's fellow bwoys an' gals,
anyway. His awn generation won't trouble him, an' he'll find a wise
guardian in Martin, an' a lovin' gran'mother in me. Dry your eyes an' be
a Blanchard. God A'mighty sends sawls in the world His awn way, an'
chooses the faithers an' mothers for 'em; an' He's never taught Nature
to go second to parson yet, worse luck. 'Tis done, an' to grumble at a
dead man's doin's--specially if you caan't mend 'em--be vain."

"My share was half, an' not less," said Chris.

"Aye, you say so, but 'tis a deed wheer the blame ban't awften divided
equal," answered Mrs. Blanchard. "Wheer's the maiden as caan't wait for
her weddin' bells?"

The use of the last two words magically swept Chris back into the past.
The coincidence was curious, and she remembered when a man, destined
never to listen to such melody, declared impatiently that he heard it in
the hidden heart of a summer day long past. She did not reply to her
mother, but arose and took her child and went to rest.

CHAPTER X

BAD NEWS FOR BLANCHARD

On the morning that saw the wedding of Chris and Martin, Phoebe
Blanchard found heart and tongue to speak to her husband of the thing
she still kept locked within her mind. Since the meeting with John
Grimbal she had suffered much in secret, but still kept silence; and
now, after a quiet service before breakfast on a morning in
mid-December, most of those who had been present as spectato