Cottage Folk

Two women and a lad came down the hill towards the stream on a frosty January evening at sunset.

It had been a good typical Christmas, and though the snow had partially disappeared, the river ran grey in the cold air, and the frost sparkled on the twigs of willows and on the brown stalks of tall water plants upon the banks.

The lad lounged easily along with his cap on the back of his head, his hands in his breeches pockets, and his pipe in his mouth; but the women bore burthens—one a bundle of brushwood on her head, the other a sack of potatoes—and as they reached the bridge they stopped to rest them awhile on its old brick parapet.

“’Old yer row, do!” the boy was saying. “What do it matter to you whether old Jeremiah ’ave a-turned me off agin or no? Ain’t I my own master?”

“Oh, ye’re yer own master safe enough,” retorted the woman, a sharp-featured body of middle age. “There ain’t nobody as ’ll worrit ’emselves much over ye now ye’ve put yer pore mother underground. If that’s what ye wanted when ye set to work to break ’er ’eart, why ye’ve got it.”

“Well, I want it now anyways,” retorted the lad with a brutal laugh.

“You’re an ungrateful beast, that’s what ye are!” said the woman shrilly. “I’d ’ave guv ye bite and sup for a night or two, for my pore sister’s sake, till ye got work again; but I shan’t now.”

“Nobody asted ye to!” laughed the lad. “When ye guv me a shake-down before ye said ye did it for ’er, but ye wanted my earnin’s all the same. And when I was turned off the farm ye turned me out in the road. I’d sooner shift for myself, thank ye!”

“Do it, then!” retorted the woman. “It looks like it, it do, and you sent adrift agin this very night! Lord, to think the devil o’ drink can get into a lad afore ’e’s forgot ’is mother’s milk!”

“If you don’t stop that jaw I’ll——” began the boy.

But the other woman laid a hand on his arm. She had a fresher, plumper, kindlier face than her neighbour, and she gave him a little friendly push as she whispered—

“There, now, there, she’s yer own mother’s sister ye know. You go ’ome.”

“Mother’s sister be damned,” said the lad irreverently. “She’s come that dodge over me long enough. She wouldn’t lift a finger to ’elp me, and I won’t ’ave no more of ’er preachments. I ain’t got no one to think of, and what I earns I’ll spend as I please.”

“A jolly lot you ever did hanything else,” began the aunt afresh, but the neighbour stopped her mouth.

“Now you go ’ome, Nat, you go on ’ome,” reiterated she to the boy; and “Can’t ye see as yer on’y aggrawatin’ the lad, Mary Ann?” she whispered to the woman. “Let ’im be, do! Maybe ’e misses his ’ome and his pore mother more than you thinks for.”

But Nat laughed as he blew the ashes from his pipe.

“Ye needn’t trouble to speak up for me, marm,” he sneered. “Lord, she don’t ’urt me, bless you,” and he snapped his fingers in the direction of his relative. “A precious sight I ever cared for the women-folk’s jaw. Oh, yes, I’ll go ’ome,” and something that somehow did not belong to the scowl flitted across the passionate young face that self-indulgence had so sorrowfully marred. “I’ll go ’ome! But where I goes there I bides—ye ’ear that? No one ain’t got no right to interfere wi’ me. I won’t never darken your doors no more, and if I’m a-goin’ to the devil I’ll go my own way.”

He stuck his cap on the back of his head again and his hands in his pockets, and lounged up the road singing a scrap of a low song in a louder voice than he could keep quite steady.

“It’s a pity, so it is,” murmured the stout woman, looking after him. “There was the makin’s of a nice lad in ’im once, I’ll be sworn.”

“You’re a new comer to the place,” retorted Mary Ann, “and that’s all you knows! If ’is pore mother didn’t fret the very guts out of ’erself a-tryin’ to bring ’im up respeckable! But the devil of ’is father were in ’im—that’s where it was. The low brute that man was! And died same as ’e lived. Found on the road—i’stead o’ dyin’ respeckable in ’is bed! As if ’e ’adn’t ha’ done the woman injury enough! Why—there was a Crowner’s inquest and all! But, Lor’, when all was said and done, I declare I niver spent a comfortabler ’alf hour than when I seed ’em nail ’im down! For, ye see, I says to myself: ‘Clara ’ll take on a bit, but she’s well rid on ’im. She can work to bring one up, and the boy ’ll soon be able to work for ’er.’ Lord, I didn’t reckon as ’e’d be a wuss devil nor ’is father, bad luck to ’im!”

“May be ’is pore mother spoiled ’im, being but the one, so to speak,” said the other half apologetically.

“Spoiled ’im!” laughed the other, preparing to shoulder her burthen again. “I reckon she did! Many’s the time I swore she’d be punished for it!”

“Well, I s’pose she was,” said the neighbour simply. “There, pore soul, I’m sorry for ’er.”

“’E broke ’er ’eart, ’e did, the young scoundrel,” growled Mary Ann, as she hitched the bundle of brushwood forward on to her back. “And I’m sure I ’ope he’ll break his own neck.”

“Oh, come, don’t say that,” murmured the gentler spirit reprovingly. “I dare say ’e’s lonesome enough anyways.”

“Lonesome!” sneered the incensed relative. “Much use ’e made of ’er company when ’e’d got it! Out on the roads, or what not, from night till morn and more! Didn’t ye ’ear ’im say precious little ’e cared for the women’s jaw? Precious little ’e did. Precious little ’e cared for aught about ’er, pore soul. Why, ’e was dead drunk the very day of ’er funeral!”

Mary Ann trudged forward as she spoke, hurling the words out against the wind under the penthouse of her burthen, and the sympathetic neighbour, standing behind her with her hands in her hips, shook her head sadly.

“That was bad,” she murmured, “that was bad, sure enough.”

Then she too turned to take up her load.

The potatoes were heavy; she failed to raise them on to her back at the first effort.

Just then the gate on to the railway line slammed to, and a girl coming down on to the bridge hurried forward and gave her a lift with them.

“Thank ye, thank ye,” said the woman. And when she had settled her burthen comfortably, glancing up to see who had helped her, she added again: “Oh, thank ye. Ye’re a stranger in the parish, ain’t ye?”

The girl blushed. She was pretty enough, but she was thin and pale, not to say wan, and her cotton dress was poor covering for the wintry day, and her ill-fitting black jacket and shabby straw hat betokened an even greater poverty than was usual in the village.

She blushed as one who knew the tone and the words, and was wont to understand beneath them the insinuation, “You’re a tramp.”

But she was mistaken. The woman before her prided herself on knowing a respectable female when she saw her, and though poor and miserable, the girl did not look “a bad ’un.”

“I’m a-goin’ on further,” said she evasively.

“Oh!” said the woman again. Then, as not wishing to be inquisitive, she added, “Well, thank ye. I wish ye a good evenin’. It’s cold weather; it’s best to walk fast to keep warm.”

And she nodded, moving on quickly to suit her action to her words.

“Good evenin’,” said the girl.

But she did not follow the advice.

Though she carried but the smallest of little bundles, she rested it on the brick parapet as the women had done with their heavier loads, and stood looking down the river into the afterglow.

It was four o’clock. The sun had set, and the poplars that crossed the stream and the fields, dividing meadow-land from water-cress grounds, shot straight arrows against a pale crimson sky, that was cool even in its fire in the cold, crisp air. Every little bare twig on the slender, bare boughs of the poplars pointed upwards; the willows by the river, though less spare and less commanding, modestly followed their example; the sky might have been constraining with its tender glory, but the girl—after one glance around on the clear-cut winter landscape, so calm with the patience of waiting Nature, but so cruelly silent with the dearth of stirring life—fastened her eyes on the water and on the water alone.

The long strings of half-dead, slimy weed that swayed idly to and fro, attached and yet floating, like the traveller’s joy on a summer’s day a-moving in the wind—or better, yes, much better still—like some dank, clinging cotton stuffs, held to the gravel bed by some heavy weight, yet erring softly, saturated with much water, on the bosom of the stream—these seemed to fascinate her beyond the power to tear away her gaze.

At last she shivered—the frost was intense—and lifted her head and sighed, a long, miserable, moaning sigh. Then she put her hand in her pocket and drew forth a letter—a letter and a thimble.

The moon, that had risen in time to see the sun go down, had just crept high enough in the sky to shine through the bare branches of the elms in the meadow beside the lower stream: it shone now upon the paper which the girl held trembling in her hand.

“Don’t ye come back here,” said the letter. “There ain’t no work to be got ’ere, and I’ve my hands full enough to keep them as are left.”

There was more, but she did not read it. She crushed the paper in her hands, and let it flutter slowly down into the water, but the thimble she put back into her pocket. Then she rested her two elbows on the brick parapet and leaned her head in them and cried softly to herself, still looking down into the darkening water as it lapped to and fro over the swaying body of weeds.

A bell sounded from the village on the hill; it cut clear and sharp across the frosty air; it was the bell from the straw-plaiting factory, sending the girls home from their day’s work. She knew it well enough, and roused herself at the sound, moving her hand to take up her little bundle once more. But in the waning light she pushed it forward instead of grasping it, and, in spite of a quick clutch, it slipped over the rounded edge of the parapet and fell with a thud into the river below. She gave a little cry as she followed it with her eyes, leaning over a long way to try and descry it in the green water beneath.

But there was nothing to be seen but the same swaying, dank body of weeds. And presently she gave a low, harsh laugh, and shrugged her shoulders, and pulling her miserable little black jacket across her chest, as though to persuade it to cling more closely to her frail, shivering body, she turned away and walked quickly up the by-path that led to the high road above.

Lights were burning in the cottage windows along the village street, and from the little straw factory on the left-hand side beside the Baptist chapel, the women were pouring forth into the road—some gay, some weary, some young, and some middle-aged, some hurrying to other duties at home, some loitering to chatter and chaff—most of them noisy, but all of them busy with work done and to do.

The girl watched them askance, drawing back under the shadow of the hedgerow, for the moon had not risen far enough yet to illumine the way, and the shadows had grown dark. When all had passed by or dispersed she moved out again, and stepped up to the door whence they had issued, and which still stood ajar on to the road.

She knocked at it and a woman appeared.

“What d’ye want?” said she.

Her tone was not unkind but it was sharp—the tone of a woman with her hands full of work, and no time for those who have theirs empty. The girl answered surlily.

“I want work,” she said.

“Well, there ain’t none to be ’ad ’ere.”

“I’m used to the straw-plaiting and shape-sewing too,” said the girl more humbly.

“Well, ye must go elsewhere. We’re full up ’ere,” said the woman, “and shall be for weeks, as far as I know. ’Ave ye got a reference?”

The girl nodded.

“Sort of, I s’pose,” said the woman shrewdly.

“I’ve got my character,” repeated the girl doggedly.

“Well, ye must take it elsewhere then,” said the woman again. “I’m sorry for ye. Good-night.”

And she shut the door quietly.

The girl turned away. She did not speak, nor even mutter, nor even sigh. But her wan little face was set and hard.

She looked down the road towards the open country, and up it where the cottages clustered, and she chose the forward way.

Wayfarers had almost cleared out of the village street, for it was quite dark now and bitterly cold; fires were burning and supper was preparing behind frosty windows and scanty window-curtains. Here and there a weary labourer or hurrying house-wife trudged past, but most people were indoors by now, most people were at home.

The girl walked on till she came near to the public-house near the village-end, where the signpost points separate fingers up the fork of the road.

There was a solitary lamp above the post-office hard by, and she stopped under it and put her hand in her pocket; the thimble and one halfpenny was all that she drew out, and she put them back again.

Then she looked behind her.

There was no one by, no one coming, and she crept stealthily up to the window of the “public,” and laid her face against the cold pane, gazing into the light and brightness and warmth within.

There were four or five men clustered round a table near the fire, and a few more standing at the bar with a couple of girls.

One of them at the table was singing in a loud voice; he was young—very young—and it was a good voice, and whatever were the words, the ditty seemed to please the company.

There was a roar of laughter every now and then, and whenever he stopped a cry of “Go on, Nat, go on, lad! That’s right,” and so forth.

The boy grew more and more excited, and the men cheered, and the girls clapped their hands and bent themselves double with laughter, and then the men laughed again till they coughed and choked with their merriment.

The song was funny, or the point lay in the youth of the singer.

And the girl outside listened.

Twice she crept to the door, twice had the knob in her hand to open and go in, and twice her pluck seemed to fail. The song stopped, there was a lull within; the warmth drew her as a magnet, and the third time she turned the handle. But she stood with the door ajar; for on a sudden there was a sound of chairs moved, of scuffling, of quick words and quick retorts within; the laughter was changed to angry altercation, words of which she could not catch the sense were flung to and fro, and all at once a man threw the door wide, and the lad who had been singing was suddenly flung forth into the road.

The girl started back at the first noise, then turned and fled into the darkness.

But the boy stood where they had hurled him, and the men slammed the door to again behind him.

There had been furious words in his mouth when he had made his ignominious exit, but they had died suddenly away as though frozen in his throat, and his limbs, that had struggled to deal revenge on his foes, had become paralyzed, his hot face had turned white with fear; he stood as one petrified, horror-struck, gazing after the thin cotton dress that flitted away in the gloom.

The clamour went on within, some angry, some grossly laughing, some striving to pacify.

The landlord had come down to the door, and after looking out through the glass, had half opened it and had glanced out. But the lad had drawn aside under the eaves.

“Why didn’t ’e keep ’is ’ands off what weren’t ’is?” one was saying angrily.

“’E’s gettin’ too cheeky by ’alf,” said another.

“Well, ’e shan’t come into my bar no more,” declared the landlord decisively, turning back into the room. “Many’s the time I’ve ’ad a mind to say so afore, when ’is pore mother used to come a-loiterin’ and waitin’ out there in the cold to try and fetch ’im ’ome. Mighty little ’e ever cared for ’er, nor anythin’ as she might ha’ said. But so long as ’e be’aved I ’adn’t the right to turn ’im out. ’E’s done for ’isself to-night though, and ’e don’t come in no more.”

“Good riddance too,” said one of the girls, settling her hair that had been loosened in the scuffle; and the landlord closed the door and drew the curtain across it.

But the lad outside made no effort to re-enter. He did not seem to have heard what had passed within his earshot.

He stood stock-still as they had left him, slowly rubbing his head with a trembling hand.

“Rot,” said he at last, to himself, with a feeble attempt at a laugh. “Ghosts! There ain’t no sich things as ghosts!”

Then he took a few steps forward, slowly and unsteadily, for he was drunk; not, however, in the direction of the village, and of his rough and lonely lodging, but between the hedges of the narrow lane beyond, where the figure had flitted before him.

Perhaps he had made a mistake; down that lane to the left stood the cottage, deserted now, where he had spent all the years of his life, alone—ever since he could remember—with the mother whom he had neglected and ill-treated, whom they all told him that he had killed.

The words buzzed wearily through his aching brain.

“Mighty little ’e ever cared for ’er, nor anythin’ as she might ha’ said!”

Yes, it was jolly true too!

And his own words, spoken an hour ago, echoed back again: “Precious little I ever cared for the women-folk’s jaw!”

It was as they said: he had killed her, and he had never cared for her, he had never mourned her, he had been drunk the day of her very funeral; he never missed her now.

He stumbled on. The winter twilight had faded long since, and the moon had slipped behind a cloud. The lane was quite dark, and he could no longer make out the swish of the white cotton skirt which he had fancied he had seen against the hedgerow. Nevertheless he stumbled on.

The old home lay close at hand; the well-known turning to it struck off here to the left. It stood in a field a little back from the road; there was an apple-tree in front of it and behind it, in the meadow that stretched down to the river, their cow used to feed in the days before his mother had had to sell her.

He stumbled on. Here, by the fence, she was wont to come down of a morning to see him off to work, of an evening to welcome him home, and—yes—often and often o’ night time to watch for him along the dark and lonely road, when he was coming home—as he was coming to-night—full of drink.

Home? Yes, it was home then, little as he had appreciated it.

He stopped at the fence, and steadied himself on its worn and worm-eaten bar.

The moonlight was leaking through the cloud again, and dimly lit the thatched roof of the cottage, whose blank windows and sealed door looked sadly across the field at him.

The latched gate was close to his hand: he opened it and went in, and the moon shone out more brightly.

The apple-tree was bare, the climbing blush rose and hardy canary-creeper on the porch were barren and leafless, the frost lay hard and crisp on the neglected garden path where he had often seen her watering the peonies and the sweet-william, or dressing the hollyhocks in some leisure moment. It was cold and lifeless now in the cold moonlight, but he saw it in sunlight and in summer, when the vegetables were green in the tiny plot of land, when the few sweet-peas scented the air, or when the apples were red on the tree.

He had never noticed any of it then, but now he was sure there had been sweet-peas and hollyhocks, and that he had seen his mother cutting the cabbages beyond them.

He scratched his head, he could not make himself out.

If it had been daylight no power would have led him to open that gate and steal into this forgotten corner, but even so he could not make himself out.

The cold air had been sobering him fast, but he told himself that he was drunk.

It was “jolly true enough” all that they had said: he hated his home, and had been in it as little as might be; he had broken his mother’s heart, and now that she was dead how could it be that he should either miss her or mourn her? Of course it could not be.

But still he lingered; the drink that was in him kept him warm, and he forgot the frost and saw the summer again.

And as he looked, the moon left the last of the cloud behind and shone out brilliantly; and there, beneath the apple-tree, he saw again the spare figure of medium height in the faded print gown, standing still as large as life.

His heart seemed to stop beating: there might be no such things as ghosts, but who was that figure standing there under the apple-tree?

It stirred now. Was it coming to meet him? He felt a cold sweat break out over his brow. No, it moved in the opposite direction—across the grass, past the cottage; it was moving in the direction of the river.

And he followed—as though he were obliged to follow; slowly at first, as in a dream, but as the figure quickened its pace—more quickly too.

What was it, where was it going?

It moved lightly, more lightly than she had done of late, and now it was hurrying—hurrying across the crisp meadow, whose damp marshiness the frost had seized fast—hurrying towards the river.

And he hurried too; without thought, blindly.

But the moon slid behind a cloud again, all grew dark, and the spirit—if spirit it was—was lost in the shadow.

Still he hurried; now he seemed to see it here—now there—he was not sure; perhaps it was all a dream. But his liquor had never served him so before—and he had often been worse drunk.

He was near upon turning back, when the moon fringed the cloud with silver again, and gradually showed him the figure, as clear as in daylight, standing upon the bridge that led across to the road.

He looked; it was facing him, but though in the white light and to his heated sense the features looked ghostly still, and the eyes wild and inhuman, there was something life-like about the creature, and even as he looked, it threw up its arms and took one leap forwards and downwards into the water.

Then he awoke; he was no longer drunk. He did not stop to think—he dashed forward, stripping off his coat as he ran, and pushed through the reeds on the river bank, and plunged into the stream.

The cold of the water was horrible—it took his breath away. But, as luck would have it, the stream here was not deep but swift, and it carried the body towards him; he clutched it, caught it, and, half swimming, half wading, brought it, in little more than a minute, safely on to the bank.

His teeth were chattering, but it was not with fright now; he had forgotten that he had once fancied this to have been a ghost.

It was a girl, and it lay motionless.

He stripped off the shoddy black jacket and wrung the water from it, then tried to wring it from the poor, clinging cotton skirts, that were stiffening with frost in the biting air; after that he chafed the cold body, and took off the worn boots and emptied the water out of them; and then he searched in his pockets, and drew forth a half-pint flat bottle, which he put to her lips.

A pungent odour of common spirit filled the air.

“It’s lucky I left a drop,” he murmured to himself, and a keener satisfaction than he had ever experienced even from drinking it himself filled him as he watched the colour slowly come back to the ashen face. But it took a deal of rubbing again before the eyes opened, before any breath seemed to come struggling through those pale lips. Several times he was for leaving her and running for assistance, because he was frightened.

But the village was far behind, and he was afraid she might die while he was gone; so he waited with a beating heart, and at last she moved and tried to speak.

“D’ye feel better now?” said he.

She nodded feebly.

He passed his hand under her head and set her up against his knee.

But the head drooped again, and she began to shiver.

“She didn’t ought to be ’ere,” he muttered to himself; “it’s freezin’ plaguey ’ard, and she soaked through.”

“D’ye think ye can walk?” said he to her ear.

She did not answer, and he scratched his head.

Then suddenly an inspiration came to him. He knew a way into the old home by the back; it would be empty and cheerless, but it would be safer than the frosty night air, and maybe he might be lucky enough to find a morsel of old wood with which he might light a bit of a fire.

It was worth trying, and without more ado he took the poor thing in his arms, and stumbled up the meadow with her.

She was light enough in all conscience, and she lay passive.

Yes, the rotten old door was broken, as he last remembered it, and he pushed it open and bore her in. The place was bare, but he lay her down beside the cold hearth, with her head against the chimney-corner, and ran to the outhouse. The luck was with him to-night as it was not wont to be: there were some remnants of brushwood scattered about; he swept together a handful, and with the matches that luckily were safe and dry in the pocket of the coat he had cast off, he soon kindled a bit of a blaze in the forsaken old dwelling-room.

Then he hung her jacket to dry and set to work again to rub her body.

The warmth revived her, she crept as close as she could to it, shivering still.

He took out the bottle again, his best notion of help; but she shook her head at the sight of it, and a sudden idea struck him.

“When did ye ’ave yer food last?” he asked.

She did not answer.

“Maybe ye’re ’ungry?” he said.

And as she was still silent, he turned out his pockets again, and produced a broken bit of dry crust.

“It’s all I left o’ my dinner,” he said, “but it’ll stay yer stomach till ye can get ’ome.”

She let him put it into her hand, but she did not eat.

“It’s a queer thing,” said he ruminatingly, “women don’t seem to ’ave no pecker when they ain’t fit.”

She shivered again.

“Now, look ’ere,” said he, drawing out the spirit bottle once more, “ye’ve got to have another go at this or I’m damned, and then ye’ve got to eat that crust.”

He forced it on her, and she submitted, and then he added: “And as soon as ye can walk ye ought to go ’ome. Ye’ll catch yer death in them damp clothes.”

She was silent, and he stood watching her nibbling the crust, while he took a pull at the spirit himself.

A notion seemed to occur to him, and he paused with the flask in his hand.

“What did ye go and jump into the water for?” he said at last, perhaps thinking that what she wanted was to “catch her death.”

And as still she was dumb, he added another to the string of his questions: “Where d’ye live?”

Then at last she answered.

“Nowhere,” said she bitterly.

He started.

“What, ain’t ye got no ’ome?” asked he.

“No,” she said.

He whistled.

“No more ’aven’t I,” he said.

“Nor yet no mother?” he added in a low voice after a while.

“No,” she said.

He looked round the ghostly, deserted old home—at the figure huddled by the hearth where another had been wont to cook his meals, at the empty window where a familiar chair had once stood.

“No more ’aven’t I,” he said. And after a pause he added with a half laugh, “P’raps ye ’aven’t even got no work?”

“No,” she replied for the third time.

And he laughed outright as he added again: “No more ’aven’t I!”

He walked to the window, and she struggled to her feet.

“So I guess ye wanted to catch yer death,” he muttered.

She stood hanging over the blaze that was beginning to flicker down, and he with his back to her at the window gazing out into the garden, where the moonlight lay white and hard on the frosted walk and on the dreary, empty potato patch.

If his mother had been up-stairs she would have known what to do now. She had always known what to do somehow. And suddenly there crossed his mind a vision of her taking into the house a poor starved dog that had been hooted down the road by the village boys.

Yes, she would have known what to do. But she was not up-stairs.

“I s’pose there’s plenty as wouldn’t mind a-catchin’ their death,” murmured he, half to himself. “Folk as ’ave made a mess of it, or as ’aven’t got no one to work for.”

The girl at the fire threw up her head almost proudly.

“I ain’t what yer might think,” she said. “I ain’t done nothin’ wus than starve. They turned me off at the factory, but it weren’t no fault o’ mine.”

“Weren’t ye drunk?” asked the boy simply.

Her wan face flushed purple.

“Drunk!” said she. “I ain’t never been drunk in my life.” And she moved from him.

Then he flushed too—ashamed.

“I beg yer pardon,” he stammered. “It’s what they turn me off for—but o’ course ... I beg yer pardon!”

“Granted,” said she. “It’s likely ye should think so. But my dead mother might see me and welcome, for all the ’arm I’ve a-done, and that’s the truth!”

He shivered at the words and looked round.

“I wish I could say as much,” said he.

She looked at him and came a step nearer, but the sob that had risen in her throat at his unintentional insult had turned to a fit of coughing, and she could not speak.

He turned quickly to the hearth, and kicked the bits of stick together with his foot; but there was no more life in them, they were burnt out, and there were no more.

“Ye’re catchin’ yer death o’ cold,” repeated he testily. “I dursen’t advise ye to stop ’ere no longer. Let me show ye the way to the next village, if ye’re a stranger to the place. Leastways, I think there’s a parcel o’ ’ouses afore ye come to it, where ye might get a night’s lodgin’.”

She laughed harshly, and he stopped—confused.

He guessed her meaning.

“’Aven’t ye got no money?” asked he after a minute or two, timidly.

“No,” she answered, struggling fiercely with tears again. “I’ve been out o’ work this three weeks. Ye’d ha’ done best to leave me where I was!”

“Don’t say that,” said he quite gently. “The luck’s bound to turn.”

She stood quietly wiping a tear now and then, and he beside her turning his hand round and round in his breeches pocket.

At last he pulled the hand out and held it towards her: there was a silver coin in it.

“Ye’d best take it,” said he sheepishly. “I ’ad my week’s wage to-day, though they ’ave a-turned me off, and I can spare it nicely. It’ll get ye a bed and a bit o’ supper anyways.”

Her face flushed and her lip quivered again. But she took it.

“Ye’re very kind,” said she. “I ought to thank ye, I’m sure. If mother was alive...”

Her voice shook, and she didn’t finish the sentence.

He stepped to the hearth and took up her wretched little jacket that had lain there a-drying, handing it to her clumsily. Her last words echoed in his ears.

She took the jacket, and pushed her poor, thin arms into its shrunken sleeves; it was damp still, and it would not meet, even across her narrow chest.

“The luck’ll turn,” he repeated awkwardly. “It allers do turn—one way or t’other. Ye must try for work again at Hoo, yonder. There’s another factory there.”

“Seems as though God A’mighty did ought to give me another chance,” she said with a sigh, “if it were on’y for this. For I shan’t be able to pay ye back else.”

He had opened the cranky door, and they had passed out into the moonlit frostiness.

“Never think o’ that,” said he.

“I shall though,” she declared. “Ye must show me your ’ome, so as I shall know where to find ye to pay it back agin—when I do get work.”

“My ’ome!” echoed he.

And he turned and looked at the deserted cottage with its closed, silent windows.

From the chimney a faint line of smoke from the remnants of the fire that he had lit was stealing up straight into the calm, cold air—ascending steadily, like incense, into the sky.

He caught his breath.

“This’d be the best place,” he said. “I’ll come ’ere next Saturday night and see if ye’re anywheres about. I’d like to ’ear ’ow ye was a-gettin’ on, but I don’t want the money.”

They had crossed the garden by this time, and stood at the gate.

“I shan’t rest till I can bring it ye though,” said she. “I ’aven’t never borrowed from nobody afore. That was why ... you know...! P’r’aps I didn’t ought to ha’ took it now. But it seemed as though ... well, it seemed as though, if yer pulled me out o’ the water, I’d got to keep the life in me! I couldn’t ha’ felt like taking it from no one else, I think. But there, ye’re a good sort, and I’ll owe it to you. But I’ll pay you—s’elp me God.”

She shoved the gate open and went out into the road, he following.

“A good sort!” He “a good sort!” An hour ago he would ... no, not have laughed; he would have sworn, to say the very least of it, at any one who had dared to say such a thing; for he would have known they meant it as an insult. But he neither laughed nor swore at this woman. He simply stood still and looked at her.

The clock in the church steeple up the stream struck ten.

“Ye’ll ’ave to look sharp,” said he, “or no one won’t take ye in to-night.”

She was shivering in the bitter air, and she could walk but slowly; still she walked alone.

He moved a few steps beside her, then stopped.

A sudden instinct that he could not have defined bade him send her on her way alone.

“Ye’ll do now,” said he, “won’t ye? Them’s the cottages—up there to yer right. You knock at the first door—there’s an old woman lives there—she used to be mother’s chum. She’d take ye in, if ’twas for nothing, but that ... if she only knowed....”

Nat blushed, and he was not in the habit of blushing, and stammered as he was not in the habit of stammering, for he did not know how to finish his sentence.

“Well, anyways ye’ve got the money,” concluded he, “and if it comes to that—there’s a ‘public’ at Hoo where they lets out beds. So you look sharp.”

“Good-night; and thank ye,” said the girl.

“Good-night,” answered he.

“I shan’t forget what you done for me,” said she.

“Oh, stow that,” he said.

He watched her as she moved slowly along: watched her till she had turned up the lane to the cluster of cottages, and waited to see if she would come back on it.

He put his hand in his pocket to feel for his pipe and matches; the matches were gone, and he remembered that he had used them to light the fire—yonder in his old home, on the hearth where his mother had been wont to boil the pot for his supper.

He turned and looked again.

The trail of smoke from the old chimney was thinner and fainter—but it was still there—ascending softly and steadily.

His heart was lighter at the sight of it, and he whistled gently to himself.

The girl had not reappeared; she must be housed and safe by now.

He set his face back whence he had come, and went on his way content.

A little bird twittered pitifully in the frost-bound hedge as he passed.

He searched for the place and found it; it was dying of cold and hunger.

He put it in his warm bosom within his coat; he thought that he would feed it when he got in, and that perhaps he might bring it back to life.