The moon shone fitfully into the wood; shone fitfully because wild clouds were hurrying across the sky at intervals, so that the feeble radiance could not even pierce, as it might have done, the tender shadows of the forest that autumn gales had not yet stripped of its golden glory.

At the foot of the dell two figures stood leaning against the gate that led from the wood on to the undulating ground beyond.

The damp, russet leaves made a carpet under their feet, and fluttered softly down upon them as the gusts flew past; for their heads were bare, his cap had fallen off and bonnet she had none, and golden curls mingled with black ones as her face lay upon his shoulder and his rested against her cheek.

They were lovers and they were young—very young. Any one could have told that—even in the fitful moonlight, even in the shadow: slender and strong and supple of pose—boy and girl still.

“Oh, Charley, what ever shall I do when you’re gone!” moaned she. “I don’t see as ’ow I can get along anyways! It’d be bad enough for any girl, but it’s worse for me, ye must own, ’cos I can’t never say a word to nobody about ye. It’s as much as my life’s worth to let it be knowed as I wish ye a good-even. Ye don’t guess ’ow father ’ates you and yours, I’ll be bound ye don’t. I b’lieve as ’e’d sooner see me dead than wed to ye. Oh, Charley, must ye go away?”

There was a plaintive prophecy of tears in the soft murmuring voice, and the lad’s tones were nearly as rueful as he answered.

“I don’t see whatever I can do else, Bess,” said he, pressing her closer than ever to his side. “Father won’t never give me no proper share in the farm, I know. There’s Ben to come afore me, and if ever he had a soft place for me, it’s pretty nigh froze over since that row last night. That’s what ’ave made my mind up, ye see?”

“Tell me about it, dear,” said she, lifting her face.

“I don’t see as that’ll do no good,” answered he, kissing her face instead.

“I’d sooner know,” she sighed.

“Well, there, ’e said as if ever ’e caught me a-courtin’ of ye, ’e’d turn me out neck and crop that very day, and never a penny of ’is should I see. It’s real onnat’ral it is, ’ow them two old blokes keep up that ’ere old row over a darned bit o’ land that was sold away a year ago. They must ’ave a real mind to quarrel, they must. So, ye see, as ’e said ’e’d turn me out neck and crop, says I to myself, the best way for me is to turn myself out first and save trouble. There’ll be no bones broke that way. For it’s sartin’ sure I ain’t goin’ to give ye up.”

And then he kissed her again more passionately than before.

For a few minutes neither spoke; there was no need. They were together, the world was far and parting was near and love sang aloud with triumphant and commanding voice.

But at last she sighed and with infinite tenderness whispered simply: “And I won’t never give you up neither, Charley. No, not if I was to die for it.”

“I know ye won’t,” said he, “I ain’t a bit afraid, else I wouldn’t go.” He paused a moment, looking into her eyes. A ray of moonlight filtered through the trees and lit her face; it made it white as the face of death. But the lips were parted in wondering rapture, and after a few moments he laughed a little laugh and repeated dreamily: “No, I ain’t a bit afraid. Ye’d never give me up.”

Then he sighed too, and in a different tone, striving for cheeriness, added: “And it won’t be so bad, ye know, arter all, darlin’. I’ll be bound I shall get on. Where there’s a will there’s a way, they say, and there ain’t no mistake about the will, is there? Besides, I’m a man now—twenty-one last March—and I’m strong, and school-master used to say I’d got a precious good head-piece when I’d a mind. I ’ave got a mind now, ye see, though I never ’ad before. I’ll soon come back and fetch you, you bet. It ain’t so much as we shall want.”

“No,” said she eagerly, “a very little ’d do to keep me on. I don’t eat much, and I’m very quick at things and real hearty, though some might think I looked a bit slim. Why, I could do a bit of earnin’ too,—take in needlework or some such-like, though I’d rather work out-doors, with you. Oh, Charley,” cried she again entreating, “I don’t see why we shouldn’t just be wed now, somewheres on the quiet, and me go away with you wherever you be bound for. It’d be much safer, and they won’t never say ‘yes’ to us, not if we was to wait till Doomsday.”

A great gust of wind swept them furiously, and she clutched his arm and looked up at him with bewildering pleading in her eyes.

But the boy turned his away and shook his head with a superior air of wisdom.

“It’d never do, Bess,” said he. “Ye’re too young. Why, you ain’t seventeen yet! Ye might be fallin’ sick on my ’ands. We mightn’t ’ave enough to eat. A man can starve a bit, but a girl can’t—not one like you.”

She sighed again, it was almost a moan, and lay her cheek against his once more. Then, suddenly, a tremor ran through her. They were standing within the edge of the wood with their backs to the open land beyond it. But in seeking his face she had turned hers towards the sky upon which low thorn-trees stood black, studding the rising ground.

“What’s that there?” she whispered terrified.

A cloud was hurrying across the moon and had laid a shadow on the whiteness of the open.

“Where?” he asked, turning to follow her gaze.

“There, there,” she repeated. “Didn’t ye see some one a-movin’ across behind the bushes? Charley, Charley, there’s father’s eyes everywheres—a-gleamin’ out at us all the time. Let’s get away from ’em—do!”

The lad moved forward, though still holding her fast with one hand.

“No, no,” said he reassuringly. “Ye’re a bit excited, that’s what it is,—ye fancy things. We should ha’ been bound to see any one move across the open there, you take my word for it.”

She pressed closer to his side, but she trembled still.

“I b’lieve father ’d kill me if he knowed as I’d been with ye to-night,” she whispered. “Ye don’t know what ’e’s like, father. It’s bad enough when ’e ’aven’t got the drink in ’im. ’E’s mad agin you and yours—downright crazy-mad. Oh, Charley,” she moaned again, clinging to him with trembling hands, “take me with ye, do, now! Don’t leave me wi’ father! I’d not be a bit o’ trouble to ye, that I wouldn’t! You try me. I’d rather live on a crust for weeks than stay ’ere alone. I’m frightened, I am. It seems as if somethin’ bad was bound to ’appen if ye go away and leave me. Take me along with ye, Charley!”

The boy wavered. He too was frightened, though he would not have acknowledged it. He too, with the headlong recklessness of youth, would have adventured all to hold what he had won, to have what he wanted; but a vague sense of responsibility born of this new and strangely constraining love, an uncomprehended instinct to protect what clung to him, prevailed at last. He kissed her again, but it was no longer feverishly; he was as he had said—a man.

“There, now, there,” said he soothingly, “ye mustn’t be onreasonable, ye know. I shouldn’t be actin’ right by ye if I was to take ye from yer ’ome afore I’d somethin’ to keep ye on. I ’aven’t acted just as I should ha’ done by ye, may be, but I can make that right. Only ye must let me go and work for ye. If I was a ’cute un like my brother Ben, I’d say to the Guv’nor: ‘Give me the bit o’ money what’d be mine some day, and let me go and take my own chance wi’ it.’ But it’d be trickin’ ’im to do that for to marry the darter o’ the man as ’e ’ates—and I ain’t a bad lot. No, I’ll make my own way, and we’ll be man and wife, fair and open, and please God father ’ll come to love ye too—some day. ’Tain’t in nature as both on ’em shouldn’t forgive when it’s done. Ay, we’ll be man and wife come Lady Day, Bess. I swear it, and it shall be done square. I ain’t a bad lot, dear, and I’ll make ye a good ’usband, s’elp me God.”

His voice shook a little, but he lifted one hand to the moon that was bright on them for a moment, while he strained her wildly to his breast with the other; and she felt the purpose in him and bowed to the inevitable.

But her tears flowed softly, and though he stroked her cheek to dry them, they flowed still and her body shook with her grief.

“Tell me ye’ve faith in me, dear?” whispered he. “Tell me ye feel as ye can trust me?”

She did not answer; the sobs that she strove against would not be stilled.

“Why, Bess!” whispered he again, half frightened. “Ye’ll never be afraid to trust me?”

Then she understood and raised her head.

“Trust ye?” she echoed bravely, and her eyes shone in the moonlight. “Trust ye? D’ye think I take ye for a blackguard?”

He kissed her passionately and she dried her eyes.

“It ain’t that,” said she, and tried to smile. “It’s only as Lady Day’s a long way off.”

The moon had topped the tallest tree that bent and quivered in the wind; she might have been hurrying herself, so wildly the clouds hurried past her, so cruelly the moments hurried onward.

“They’ll be waitin’ supper for me,” said the girl with a little shudder, looking up at the trees. “Father’s been to market. He was to be late ’ome, but ’e’ll ’ave been back long afore this. Oh dear!”

“Well, ye mustn’t notice ’im too much,” declared he bravely. “’E won’t plague ye, if ye stand up agin’ ’im. Ye must be a bit saucier. I’m sure ye used to be saucy enough to me when first I fancied ye!”

“That was ’cos I knowed ye loved me,” smiled she, and then they kissed again. But they couldn’t keep the sauciness up, and the next thing she said was said sadly enough.

“It’s near six months to Lady Day,” she whimpered. “And I sha’n’t ’ave no news of ye till then!”

“I’ll write when I get a bit settled,” he said.

“I’d never get the letter,” moaned she.

“Ye must go to the Post-office for it,” he answered.

“Post-mistress might tell,” objected she. But then with a sudden inspiration: “May be Nan Fordham ’d fetch it for me. She’s a good child. And ye might put A. B. on it, same as the girls do when they ’vertise for a situvation.”

“Why, yes, that’s capital,” he cried. “What a clever one you is, to be sure! Nobody’d find that out, I’ll be bound.”

The comfort was a little one, but they hugged it and planned their plan with fresh courage. But it was parting all the time, bitter-sweet, though they painted the future brightly for one another, and took their fill of the kisses the memory of which was to keep them alive: it was parting and it hurt.

They made it last as long as they could; sheltering her from the blasts with his arm around her, he took her to the edge of the wood, and many a time did he leave her, yet was fain to come back for a last word, a last embrace. But it was all over at last; he was gone, and she was left on the empty road, swallowing her tears, alone.

Some one stood at the house-door as she crossed the common; the moon had sailed forth from among the clouds again and stared at her grief, and would not cover her sorrow. She could see the figure plain enough in the hard, white light, and her heart leapt to her mouth and she thanked the chance that had made Charley run down the grass slope to the railway-station instead of coming round with her by the road.

She knew to whom the figure belonged, and she knew what it would say, and try as she would to call to mind her lover’s brave banter, try as she would to steel herself as he had bade her, her cheek was as white as the moonlight and her heart fell against her side.

“Where’ve ye been?” thundered the figure as she came up, and the first word told her that the man was in drink.

“Down the village,” she faltered, faintly.

“That’s a lie,” he shouted. “Why’s your feet soppin’ wet, and what are them dead leaves a-stickin’ in yer ’air for?”

She put her hand up vaguely; it was true—the leaves of the wood had left upon her the loving memory of her happiness. She took the two withered witnesses from her curls and pressed them to her bosom.

“Ye’ve been down in the copse, and ye’ve been and met a man there, ye shameless slut,” shrieked the father, shuffling a step nearer to her and seizing her by the arm. “Now, don’t tell me no more darned lies. It ain’t no use. You’ve been see’d a-cuddlin’ and a-kissin’, fit to shame the mother that bore ye. And I tell ye what, I’ve ’ad my suspicions this fortnight past, and if this lover o’ yours—damn ’im!—’ave got aught to do with that stuck-up good-for-nothing son of a scamp—ye know well enough who I mean!—I’ll break every bone in his blasted body! So now ye’re warned, and ye know me well enough to guess I’ll do what I say.”

Bess stood still and said not a word; she was cold and she trembled, but a blessed peace glowed within her, and she was not afraid, for she was happy. The glamour of her bliss was fresh upon her, his kisses still burned her lips, his heart still beat against hers. She stood still, rapt and listening—listening for the whistle of the train that should tell her he was being carried far from her but far from harm also.

It struck upward from the valley, and she sighed a sigh of relief. For herself she could bear much—and he was safe. No one could break every bone in his blessed body now.

“Why don’t ye answer?” snarled the man. “Am I to be fooled and cheeked by a mere brat, a chit as ain’t fit to be tret as a woman at all? Am I to be gainsayed by the likes o’ you?”

And he shook her violently by the arm.

“I don’t gainsay ye, father,” said she, quietly. “I ’aven’t said nothin’. I ain’t got nothin’ to say.”

The words seemed to exasperate him to frenzy.

“Oh, you won’t speak, won’t ye?” cried he. “You ain’t goin’ to give the young blackguard away, eh? Well, then, ye can take what I meant for ’im instead.”

And with a violent jerk he threw her from him, kicking her even as she fell.

She went down, striking the garden gate, which in her fear she had left unlatched, and lay, huddled together, with her head in the dust of the road, and her face as marble under the moon.

He looked at her a moment, muttering curses still, and lurched up the path again, calling fiercely to some one within as he went.

“Ye’d best come and fetch this precious darter o’ yours, marm,” cried he. “And ye’d better lock her up when ye get ’er. D’ye ’ear me? Lock her up, I say! She’s not fit to be let out doors. I thought she were only a chit,—but she’s a slut, that’s what she is—a dirty slut. But I’ve punished ’er for it! Oh, and I’ll do it again if I find ’er at ’er tricks! That I swear! So now ye both on ye know.”

A feeble, spiritless-looking woman appeared on the threshold. She gave a little moan when she saw what had happened, but she attempted no remonstrance, only ran foolishly crying down the path to where the figure lay motionless in the dust.

But Bess, though stunned and bruised, was not dead. As her mother slid an arm under her head to raise it, she turned towards her.

“Never mind,” she gasped, “it ain’t so bad. Father’s been drinkin’—’e didn’t mean no ’arm. Take me indoors, mother, or the neighbours’ll see.”

Mrs. Benson looked round nervously. There was nothing she minded so much in the world as “the neighbours seeing” anything.

But luckily it was night, farm work was over, and the farm buildings that clustered close together opposite the house were deserted and silent: and the village proper lay further down the hill.

Bess tried to sit up, and the woman helped her; she helped her with her arm, but word of comfort for the young and sore spirit there was none.

“Whatever ye must needs go and take up with that young Chiswick for I’m sure I don’t know,” whimpered she. “Ain’t there trouble enough a’ready? You did ought to ha’ knowed better—your father so set on agin them Chiswicks as ’e is! One’d think there weren’t no other chaps about! But, Lor’, ye can’t count on girls!”

She had her arm round the slender waist and helped the drooping figure up the path. And in the kitchen she set her in a chair and wiped the blood from her forehead, and then took her up and put her to bed. It was done deftly enough, but all the time the same moan went on till the child was glad when the candle was taken away and she was left to her thoughts.

For in her thoughts she could live over again the happy moments that were so near in the past ... and of the future she would not think. That was grim enough, for she guessed pretty surely that her home would give her nothing but what it had given her to-night, and Charley was gone: gone to some unknown spot in that vast and unknown London, that to Bess was as the wilderness itself.

She had not put it too strongly when she had said that her fight would be a worse fight than another’s.

It was a bad fight, but it was a brave one. For a while there was a lull in the persecution; either sobriety brought shame for the brutal assault on his daughter, or the departure of young Chiswick from the village removed his excuse, but anyhow Farmer Benson quieted down to sullen moroseness within-doors, and to bitter attacks upon his neighbour without.

Christmas came and went, and on Christmas Day Bess wore a face so bright that her mother looked at her wondering, and her father swore beneath his breath in sheer perplexity.

The night before a red-haired little maid had run into the kitchen with eager eyes, and the girl’s heart had leapt into her mouth. Luckily there had been no one by, but Bess had snatched the child in her arms and carried her into the orchard, kicking and screaming at the indignity, ere she had dared to ask her for what she carried. It was a letter, addressed A. B., and was supposed to be for some person unknown.

Bess took possession of it, in exchange for a good scolding for instructions of secret delivery not adhered to, and a bright penny for acid-drops. And then she ran away into the wood.

The leaves were all off the trees, and lay rotting in the purple brushwood; a hard sky looked on a hard and frozen land, and there was a promise of snow in the air in place of the soughing of the wind in the watching forest on that night when every gust had borne a tale of love through the moonlight.

But Bess knew nothing of wind or weather: Charley was beside her once more; his kisses made her heart beat again, and her face was hot in the frost as it lay, in her thought, against his. He was well, he loved her, he had never looked at another girl, he had got work at last, and he was coming back for her soon. And she kissed the letter as girls do, and cried over it in her joy.

That was why her face shone over the plum-pudding as it used to do when she was a little maid, and that was why the Christmas bells were sweet to her.

But Christmas went by, and New Year went by, and the frost held unrelenting sway, and Bess drooped. The crispness went out of her pretty hair, and her tall young figure grew quite too slim, and her fair, fresh skin became wan and transparent. The mother sighed, as any mother must, but dared make no remark, for she lived in terror of her man, and if it was for love of one whom he had said must not be loved that Bess grew pale,—pale she must grow, and there was no help: Farmer Benson never changed his mind, other folk had to change theirs.

But it was not only with the hunger of love unsatisfied that Bess was growing white; her health was strange, and a great fear was growing in her mind. Yes, young as she was, she was too much of a country girl not to know very well what things meant, and an awful chill struck at her heart.

What should she do? Whither turn for help, with whom consult, in whom confide?

Her mother? She loved her mother, and would never have dreamed of blaming her for being what she was; but was it wonderful that she should feel the burthen would only weigh the heavier on herself for endeavouring to share it with one who was too weak to bear any part of it? Perhaps—perhaps if she had known more of mother’s love she would have trusted it a little, and perhaps she might have been right; perhaps even that wavering heart would have swelled to a sense of its greatest duty, have yearned to protect that which it had borne. But Bess never gave it a thought.

“Not to worry mother” had always been her motto, it was her motto still.

The one person in the world who should have helped her, she held to be useless; the one person in the world who would have helped her was far away, and knew naught of her distress.

For that one cherished Christmas letter was the only one that she had had, and in that he had given her no address to which she could have written, even had she dared. He had said that he was changing it, and he had said that he was coming—coming very soon.

So she waited, hoping every day that “very soon” might mean the morrow; but her smile grew rarer and sadder, and her eyes more wistful and her cheek more white.

One Sunday in early February, when the sun was shining gay upon the crisp snow and icicles hung rainbow-tinted from the cottage-eaves, Farmer Benson strode into the farm kitchen. His wife was busy mixing the Sunday pudding, but Bess, contrary to her wont, was sitting listless in a chair. She rose quickly as her father entered, but not before he had had time to notice her attitude.

“Now what’s that puling face for, pray?” said he sharply. “Let’s ’ave none o’ them airs and graces ’ere. It won’t pay wi’ me, I can tell ye! No, nor get ye a ’usband, neither!”

Bess looked up with a new fear in her face, and Mrs. Benson said, half-appealing: “What, Lor’, she don’t want a ’usband yet awhile, do she, John? She’s but a child, surely.”

“Get out wi’ yer ‘do she, John!’” snarled the man. “Most women’s pleased to get their darters out o’ hand, but you’re such a lazy one ye want to keep ’er ’angin’ round to do yer work for ye, I suppose? But whether you want or whether she wants, she’s got to ’ave one. A child she is, but if she’s woman enough to play tricks, she’s woman to ’ave a ’usband. And a child does as it’s bid.”

Bess gave a great start and went paler than ever, and her father held his bleary eye fixed fast on her.

“Yes, she’s got to ’ave a ’usband,” repeated he doggedly, emphasizing every word, “and ’igh time too!”

“What d’ye mean, father?” faltered the girl faintly.

“I mean what I says,” insisted he, still watching her. “Ye’ve got to ’ave a ’usband if ye can get one, and one o’ my choosin’ too, and that in just about as jolly quick time as I can do it in! Ye’ve got yerself talked about i’ the parish, a-prowlin’ round with a young vagabond at dead o’ night, and I ain’t a-goin’ to ’ave no girl o’ mine talked about, not if I knows it!”

“It’s ’ard lines, that it is,” sniffed the woman irrelevantly. “And we with on’y that one.”

“It’s ’ard lines to ’ave such a slut for a darter,” snarled the man, drawing up his bloated figure to its awful height and turning his drink-sodden face upon his wife. “The Bensons ’ave been respectable folk ever sin’ I can remember, though you be a bit of a fool, Mary, and I ain’t a-goin’ to ’ave ’em blowed upon.”

“I can’t get married,” faltered Bess, with a break in her voice.

“Oh, can’t ye!” sneered the father. “We’ll soon see about that, leastways if there’s a man fool enough to take ye. And that’s where I’m comin’ to. Jim Preston, from over Harraden way, is a-comin’ in this arternoon to ask ye to walk out wi’ ’im. ’E’s not much to look at, but ’e can keep a wife, and ’e saw ye over in the town one day, and was flat enough to fancy ye. Ye’re lucky to git the chance, and ye’d best catch ’old of it. Leastways, if ye don’t, I’ll know the reason why.”

“I can’t git married, father,” was all Bess said again.

And then the man went up to her with his heavy fist raised above his head, as on the night when she had come home from her tryst in the wood. She shrank against the dresser, and Mrs. Benson murmured frightened words beneath her breath.

But he seemed to think better of it, for his arm dropped at his side, and he turned from her with a muttered curse.

“Yes, I’ll know the reason why, so sure as my name’s John Benson,” he repeated. “And if I find you sittin’ pulin’ and whinin’ ’ere over that darned scapegrace lad o’ Ben Chiswick’s—damn ’im!—I tell ye fair and square I’ll turn ye out of ’ouse and ’ome.”

“I knowed it’d come to this,” moaned the mother.

“Come to this?” laughed he. “Ay, and it’ll come to wus afore I’ve done if ye can’t make ’er mind my orders, marm. Ye may think it’s tall talk, miss,” he added, turning to his daughter again, “but as sure as this is the Sabbath Day and there’s a God above us, I’ll turn ye out sooner than see ye wed to Ben Chiswick’s son. I’ll turn ye out, be the disgrace what it may.”

He brought his great fist down on the dresser with a thud that made the plates and dishes rattle on the rack, and turned upon his heel.

At the door he faced her once more, with the latch in his hand.

“Jim Preston ’ll be round somewheres about three o’clock,” said he. “Ye’d best look alive arter dinner and smarten yerself up.”

After that first shrinking from his hand, Bess had not moved while he had been speaking. She had not even dropped her eyes. And now that he was gone, she just sat down again quietly, but with a sort of slowness that told of momentarily spent energy though not of waning courage.

“Ye’ll give the young man a nice welcome, leastway, Bess,” begged the mother, half frightened without knowing it, of this silent daughter, whose moods and intentions were as a foreign tongue to her. “Even if ye did fancy young Chiswick a bit, ’e’s left the place, and out o’ sight ’s out o’ mind wi the men, they say. Very like ’e knowed it weren’t no go, for they do say th’ old man’s as set agin father as father’s agin ’im. I call it main reason’ble o’ the lad to take ’isself off: most girls fancy another lad afore the one they weds. I did myself—’andsomer than John ’e was—but, Lor’, what’s to be, ’ave got to be. And there’s no tellin’ ye mightn’t take to this Preston chap once ye got used to ’im. Anyways ye’ll speak the man civil. I don’t know whatever I shall do wi’ father if ye don’t.”

“All right, mother,” said Bess quietly, “I’ll speak ’im civil.”

The winter evening fell softly.

Jim Preston had been and gone.

He had proved to be “not much to look at;” indeed, a stout, plain young man, with a scanty wit, but Bess had been kinder to him than if he had been smart, for he had paid her no court, and for the matter of that had scarce spoken half-a-dozen words to her.

And now he was gone, and for a while at least he would not come back, and she sat alone, trying to think what she should do.

The garden stretched away on the right towards the common, but at its foot it ended in a sort of dry water-cress moat, beyond which were pastures where the cattle grazed in summer, but that were now deserted and barren, staring at the barren trees that flanked their two sides. Snow lay white over them and clung to the broad frost-bitten leaves of the winter cabbages in the garden; snow was sprinkled on the privet hedge, and the skeleton boughs of the beeches and maples that began the wood were set clear and black upon a brilliant frosty sunset. The sky was the softest thing to be seen; and all unconsciously Bess kept her eyes on the sky, and forgot the hard earth, and dreamed of love again.

Her song still had the same old rhythm; there had crept into it first one little natural womanly moan of regret because Charley had not heeded her presentiment—had not taken her with him, but the burthen of it had not changed: she loved Charley—Charley loved her; Charley would come back, he would come back soon. It was only a matter of waiting, of being plucky a little longer, and all would be well yet. To be brave, to be silent, to let matters take their course, and to wait and to trust—that was her only instinct, and that instinct she obeyed.

So when her father came in that night from the “Public” he found her restored to her usual simple sweet serenity, and was appeased in his wrath; the silly girl had thought better of it, said he to himself, and would be safely married yet before the year was much older.

But he did not quite know his gentle daughter. To him she was a child still; he did not guess that in the last few months she had become a woman: a woman strong to suffer because she loved.

Lady Day drew near, Lady Day when Charley had promised to come back and fetch her that they might be wed. But there was no news of him; no letter had come save that one long ago, and the fear that had come upon Bess was a certainty, and she knew that she could not wait much longer.

March that had come in as a lion bid fair to go out like a lamb. A sudden fit of balmy spring weather had sprung upon the heels of the cruel winter; the wood had a tender flush over its brown bareness that told of tiny buds struggling forth into the new world, a hope and a promise of green leaves and of blossoms, of summer and the sun. A few primroses opened pale petals to the unwonted warmth, like the wondering eyes of little children; a few violets in warm, moss-covered corners burst their buds amid sheltering leaves; the almond tree in the garden began to look pink, and the old thorns on the common to stud their black boughs with the tiny white stars that first tell of a winter that is past; the birds twittered and Bess sang, for it was Lady Day—the spring was come and the sun of love shone fair.

But, lo! a shower struck across the world; the sky had grown black in a moment, the geese on the common huddled drearily together, the ducks waddled disconsolate beside the pond, the chickens in the yard stood under shelter, and the little newborn lambs ran to their mothers for comfort in the meadow.

Through the sheet of wet a thick, squat figure pounded along the shining road towards the farm. Bess could see it from the parlour window where she was dusting the china. It was Jim Preston, and her heart sank a little and she wished the rain would not patter so against the window; she noticed weather now-a-days as she never used to do.

He undid the latch of the gate and came up the garden path.

Bess drew back behind the window-curtain; somehow she hoped he would not see her, she hoped she might not have to see him. She had seen him several times since that day of her father’s brutal bidding, but she had never been frightened of him, for he got so little—so very little—“forrarder,” but to-day a sudden instinct bade her beware. It was a working day and she had not expected him.

He knocked, but she did not move.

“Bess,” called her mother from the kitchen, “open the door, I can’t go just now.”

Still she did not answer.

The woman pushed open the door of communication.

“Don’t stand gapin’ there, child,” whispered she. “Didn’t you ’ear a knock? Why, Lor’, it’s Mr. Preston,” she added, peeping through the muslin and seeing the broad back on the threshold. “It’s a good job you’ve got a clean frock on. Look sharp, I ain’t fit to be seen. I must go up-stairs and change.”

And she went into the kitchen again and closed the door softly.

There was no help for it; Bess opened the front door.

Preston turned round, he looked a bit shame-faced; he had on his best, but it was wet and he looked his worst; he put down his umbrella and stood there fumbling with it.

“Won’t you step in?” she said at last.

He crossed the threshold, and then she saw that he had a letter in his hand. Something in the look of it made her heart beat. She pushed open the door of the sitting-room and went in before him.

“I come across a little maid down at the foot of the ’ill,” said he, closing the door after him, “and she asted me if I was a-comin’ up to the farm. I don’t know how she guessed I might be, but she said I was to give ye this ’ere letter ’cos she’d got to go to school, and she’d come up in the arternoon for the penny.”

Bess held out a trembling hand and he put the letter into it.

“But it ain’t for you, are it?” said he, puzzled.

There did not seem to be much blood in the whole of the girl’s body before, but all there was rushed to her face now; her eyes shone and a faint smile flickered across her lips.

“Yes, yes,” murmured she, forgetting caution in her joy; “it’s for me!”

She did not open it, she held it in her hand gazing at it. She knew well enough what it said—it said that he was there, waiting for her, coming to her, loving her: the knowledge that she had it to read when she liked was enough.

“You’re never ’vertising for a situation,” said Preston, aghast, “and your father so well to do!”

The words recalled her to herself.

“No, no,” she said quickly. “O’ course not.”

Preston looked away, twirling his cap in his hands. He did not like to ask her why her own name was not on the letter; that would have seemed like prying. So he was silent.

“Won’t ye sit down?” said Bess, in a minute. “Father’s out, but he’ll be back soon, and mother ’ll be down in a minit. Unless ye’d like to leave a message?”

“No, I ain’t got no message,” said he. “I seed yer father this morning.” He paused, and then added nervously: “If the truth’s to be known, I come to see you.”

Bess did not answer. She was not surprised, and it did not occur to her to pretend to be so. She was vexed, but looking down at the letter in her hand she was so happy that she forgot it.

He woke her from that dream.

“I seed yer father this morning,” he was repeating. “He said ’e thought I’d best not wait till Sunday come round again.” He paused once more, and then with a blush blurted forth—“’E said as ’ow ’twas ’is opinion I was a-beatin’ about the bush too much, and you’d sooner ’ave the thing done and settled with off-’and.”

“Done and settled with,” faltered Bess quite awake now!

“Yes—regardin’ me and you,” he went on more courageously. “It’d be a good marriage. I ain’t no beauty, nor yet much for smartness, may be. But I can give ye a comfortable ’ome, and I ain’t got no bad ’abits. I’d make ye a good ’usband, s’elp me God.”

She put her hand to her head. The words recalled something to her, but she was so dizzy she could not remember what. Then it flashed across her that Charley had used them down there in the wood, under the falling leaves the night when he had kissed her good-bye.

She sat down, looking at her letter.

“I’ve been to blame,” she said. “I oughtn’t to ha’ let ye come at all. I ought to ha’ told ye at the first.”

“What?” said he.

She looked up at him with contrite eyes.

“I couldn’t wed ye,” she answered. “I couldn’t—no ways. Ye wouldn’t wish it if ye was to know.”

“I know they say there’s another chap,” said Preston bluntly. “But they say ye can’t ’ave ’im anyways, so ye might just as well ’ave me as set and fret ’ere. Ye’d ’ave a comfortable ’ome and no worry. I ain’t a worritin’ sort.”

“Ye wouldn’t wish it if ye was to know,” repeated Bess softly. And then she rose and made a step towards him. Something was on her tongue, something inspired by his honest, stolid face. But it was never said.

A door banged in the background, a heavy step ground the kitchen floor; her hand fell at her side and her mouth twitched, and her father flung the door open and stood before them.

He looked at them both and laughed.

“Well, ’ave ye settled it at last, Jim?” said he. “My word, we was spryer at catchin’ ’em o’ my time.”

There was silence and his face turned sour.

“Well, out wi’ it, man,” said he.

“Miss don’t seem to fancy me,” said the poor fellow, driven to speak.

“What?” roared the farmer, turning to her.

His ruddy colour became purple, his eyes grew small and wicked; travelling downward from her face they fell upon the letter which she still unconsciously held.

“What’s that?” said he, snatching it from her.

She drew in her breath with sudden dismay and held out a trembling hand.

“Don’t, ah, don’t!” she cried. “It ain’t for you.”

He laughed harshly.

“It ain’t for you, anyways,” he said, looking at the superscription. “And as I don’t know some one o’ the name o’ A. B. in this ’ere ’ouse, I’d best open it and find out who ’tis for.”

And he tore the cover as he spoke.

The girl tottered where she stood, and stretched out a hand to steady herself against the mantelpiece.

Preston had made two steps towards the door, but a furious gesture from the farmer had been more than he dared disobey, and he stayed where he was, still twirling his hat in his hands.

The old man’s face grew livid as he read; then, with a muttered curse, he crushed the paper in his hand and tossed it into the fire.

Bess made no effort to save her property; the flames curled round it and swallowed it at once. Her lips had parted as though she would have cried out, but no sound came from them; she only leant a little more heavily against the mantelpiece and her face went white.

Her father made a step towards her, and pushed her into a chair.

For an instant he glared at her; then slowly putting his hands in his pockets, he turned to the crest-fallen suitor.

“Ye ain’t pressin’ enough, man!” laughed he unpleasantly. “Try her again. She won’t say ye nay. That’s on’y coyness. Oh, no, she won’t say ye nay.”

And he slapped Preston loudly on the back, laughing again, and so passed back into the kitchen, still muttering, “Oh, no, she won’t say ye nay.”

But still Farmer Benson reckoned without his host.

Bess sat still, and the young man looked at her askance from time to time.time.

“Were the letter from t’other chap?” asked he at last.

“Yes,” she said.

“It’s a pity ’e burned it,” declared Preston sympathetically. “P’r’aps it might ’ave told ye somethin’ as ye wanted to know.”

“Yes,” assented Bess, “it’s a pity ’e burned it.”

“D’ye think it might ha’ been to tell ye the lad had changed ’is mind?” asked he.

She did not smile. She shook her head.

“No,” she said. “He’s a-comin’ back to fetch me.”

“Oh,” said Preston, “he is, is he? Will yer father stomach it then, d’ye think?”

“I don’t know,” said Bess, looking at him. “But there’ll be some way.”

No misgiving occurred to her in confiding her secret to this new suitor; instinctively she felt he was her best friend.

“Yes, yes,” said he soothingly, “p’r’aps there will. Anyways,” he added after a minute, “I understand as ye don’t care to give yer word to no other chap just now. So we’ll let that be.”

“Thank you,” she said.

He took the door-knob in his hand.

“If I can do anything to ’elp ye, I’d be pleased,” he said. “And if it should fall through arter all, and ye seemed to feel ye could change yer mind, why in course I shall allers be willin’, ye know. I ain’t a changeable man. Ye can bear in mind that it’d be a comfortable ’ome and no worritin’.”

Bess lifted grateful eyes to his.

“You wouldn’t want it if ye knew all,” she repeated.

“Well, I ain’t a changeable man,” was his reply once more. “And I’ll be willin’ to serve ye at any time. Good-arternoon.”

He left her and she sat still, gazing into the fire.

She was grateful to Jim Preston—very grateful to him; she felt that she had one more friend in the world than she had thought to have an hour ago; still, her perplexity and trouble were greater than anything else could be. Jim Preston could do no more for her than what he had done—than promise not to renew his suit. And she sat gazing into the flames that had swallowed her last hope.

She saw her father join the young man at the garden gate, and walk with him down the road; she saw him stop suddenly, shaking his stick in the air, then stride forward, striking it furiously against the stones. She knew that what he was hearing was in no way appeasing his wrath against her; but she was past trembling, only she knew that she must make up her mind at once—before he came home—as to what she must do.

Yes; and there was only one thing she could do: go to Charley. Somehow or other she must find him and go to him—at once. And still she sat looking into the red embers, where fluttered the gossamer remnants of her lost letter—the letter that would have told her what to do—where to find him who alone could save her.

A lump rose in her throat, but she choked it down. That the letter should have come at all showed that Charley was safe, and if he was safe he loved her, he would protect her. Why should she cry? Surely she could trace him somehow!

She swallowed her grief and set herself to think, seriously, practically, as she had never been wont to think before. But the more she thought the better she realized that she could not find Charley—that she had no clue to his whereabouts—that there was nothing, nothing to be done but to wait till he came.

Yet perhaps the letter had said that he was not coming, that he dared not show himself, or that for some other reason it was best she should come to him. Lady Day was past when he had promised her to return, and perhaps that was the reason. He had told her in that letter where to come to him, and the letter was gone, and its secret with it.

She rose, pressing her hands to her aching brow. How dared she wait for him—even a week longer? A week would seem little to him, guessing naught of her trouble: but if he knew, if he only knew!... For at any moment her secret might be discovered, and then her father might kill her! Yes, she believed he would kill her!

Ah, she must go, she must go at once. She must leave home, leave the village; take refuge somewhere, in some place where she was not known, and try to find work and invent some means of letting Charley know.

Her mother came into the room. She had her best dress on, but her eyes were red and she had a scared look.

“What,” said she, looking round, “is he gone? Well, ’ave ye settled it?”

“Settled what?” replied Bess wearily.

“Why, bless the girl, settled to marry Jim Preston, to be sure,” said Mrs. Benson, peevishly. “It ain’t no good to keep on a-beatin’ about the bush. Ye’ll ’ave to do it sooner or later.”

“I can’t marry Mr. Preston, mother,” repeated the poor creature in a dull voice. “I told you and father I couldn’t. It wouldn’t be fair to him any ways. I’ve told ’im so, and ’e ain’t goin’ to ask me no more.”

Mrs. Benson let herself flop into a chair.

“Ye’ll be the death o’ me, Bess,” she whimpered. “Ain’t goin’ to ask ye no more! Lord, what’ll yer father say?”

“I don’t know,” said the girl. “I told Mr. Preston he wouldn’t want to marry me if he knew all, and he ain’t goin’ to ask me no more.”

Mrs. Benson lifted a pair of scared eyes before her daughter and looked at her searchingly.

“Whatever did ye tell ’im?” whispered she.

“No more than that, mother,” said Bess. “But I can’t never marry nobody but Charley Chiswick, and if I don’t marry ’im I must bide single.”

“Lord-a-mercy, and to think we must needs come to this!” moaned the mother. “And we allers ’olding our ’eads so ’igh in the village and fit to do it too! Nobody won’t be able to say no more that Mary Benson’s nasty proud! I sha’n’t dare look folk in the face, I sha’n’t! I sha’n’t dare go to church.”

“Mother,” said the girl, disregarding her complaint and suddenly and desperately resolving to make one first and last appeal to the only possible helper she had—“mother, won’t ye ’elp me to marry Charley Chiswick? Won’t ye?”

Her voice shook for the first time and she looked up piteously.

But the mother turned away her eyes.

“’Elp ye to marry Charley Chiswick!” echoed she stupidly. “Why, father’d kill me for it, ye know ’e would, Bess! ’Ow can ye ask such a thing and you knowing ’ow set on ’e is against it all?”

Mrs. Benson fell a-crying again, and Bess turned away with a sigh.

“Why, ’e told me I was to lock ye up if ye ’adn’t come to no understanding with Jim Preston, ’e did. ‘Mary,’ says he, ‘she ain’t fit to go out-doors, and out-doors she don’t go till she goes as Jim Preston’s wife.’ Ye knows as well as me what father is. There ain’t no gainsayin’ father.”

Bess raked the fire together. The last ashes of her letter had disappeared.

“Very well,” said she quietly. “Ye needn’t trouble to lock me up, mother. I won’t come down no more till father sends for me.”

She folded away the duster with which she had been doing her work and went out of the room. And the mother sat there only feebly crying and listlessly listening to the young footfall as it lightly shook the rafters of the old chamber overhead.

The night had descended and the stars shone. There had been a row down-stairs, and a woman’s scream had pierced to the bedroom where Bess sat alone in the dark. She had held her breath a moment, but such scenes were of too frequent occurrence for her to be deeply frightened, and presently her mother came up carrying a candle in her hand and bringing the bread-and-water that was to be her only food. She was still crying, but she did not speak, not even when the girl, with a sudden tightening at her heart, went up to her and threw her arms round her neck.

“Oh, mother, mother,” whispered she, “I’m real sorry to bring all this trouble upon ye—I’m real sorry!”

She smoothed the thin, bleached hair and kissed the wrinkled brow, and the mother cried more copiously, and for an instant strained her daughter to her breast, but she quickly shook her head, and, as though afraid of herself, hastened away as she had come, taking the light with her.

And Bess sat down again and waited.

The twilight was gone, the stars brightened, and the darkness deepened. The two pine-trees that stood over against the farm-buildings across the road, shook their solemn heads against the inky sky out of which the blue had been drained by the stars.

Bess was glad of the stars, for they gave her courage, but she was also glad that there was no moon, and glad too that although she could hear the footsteps of a belated labourer echo clear along the road, she could scarcely see his figure under the opposite hedge.

That which she had to do needed darkness to cover it.

Slowly the house grew silent: her father had been out to the “Public,” and had come in again; she had heard him grumbling and swearing in the kitchen as he had grumbled and sworn so often before; then her mother raked the fire out and the two came up-stairs slowly and went to bed. Presently the heavy breathing that had put her to sleep many a night through the thin partition, sounded again along the wall, only to-night it did not put her to sleep.

When the night was two hours older and the village lay dead quiet, Bess rose up and silently bade good-bye to all that she had known in her short, young life: good-bye to the father whom she feared, to the mother whom she dared not trust, good-bye to the virgin bedroom, good-bye to all the foolish little keepsakes of childhood; and with dry eyes, with a spirit that was too tremulous to grieve, yet with a trust as great and a courage as high as ever, made her modest little bundle of clothes, and slid noiselessly down the stairs.

She dared not unlatch the door, but the kitchen-window was low and she managed easily to drop from it into the garden; the hens sat asleep on their perch, and though the dog stirred it was only to wag his tail and lick her hand at the first whisper of her voice.

She shivered as she felt the cold night air—shivered in spirit as well as in body, but Charley was waiting for her, Charley would make all good to her again, and she would not be afraid.

A bend in the lane was hiding the old house from view, and she turned and looked at it for the last time: it was the home of her happy childhood, before her father had become morose and savage, before her mother had grown peevish and tearful—the only home she had ever known, for was she not a child still? It was cold and silent, and smiled no good-bye to her as she left it behind—left it wondering what home would next be hers and when and if safely she might reach it.

But beside her as she walked lay the wood—barren now of leaves beneath the wintry sky, but full of many and tender memories, and with the thought of kisses upon her lips, she went gallantly forth to the unknown.

The stars shone steadily: she lifted her eyes to them and was comforted, for they smiled on her as the eyes of her lover. But one fell down the sky as she looked—fell from its triumphant height, away into the darkness below the edge of the world. She turned another corner, and was lost in the deeper shadow of the wood.

A merry April day drew to its close. The buds on the elms had burst from pink to green, the almond-blossom was at the rosiest of its bloom, the daffodils along the garden-walk were crowning themselves with gold, the blue-bells began to colour the brown earth in the graveyard of the very leaves that had fluttered softly upon a pair of young lovers in October last.

The sun had just set, and a line of ruddy light glowed behind the still sparsely-clad trees of that same wood when Charley Chiswick stepped from the train into the little station below the hill.

He fancied that the porter stared at him strangely, and that two labourers who met him on the platform grinned as he passed, but he only nodded to the one and passed the others by, and running quickly down the steps, took the road to the farm.

A little red-haired maid was playing by the wayside. He stopped and looked at her, considering.

“Will you take a bit of a letter up to Benson’s for me, little un?” said he presently.

“Iss,” said she staring at him. “Will they give me a penny for it, same as Bess used to?”

Something in the turn of the phrase struck a sudden chill to the lad’s heart, but he shirked investigating the matter and only said:

“What, ’ave you took letters up there before?”

“Iss,” repeated the child. “I carried one up, and Bess giv me a penny. But it was school-time when post-mistress giv me the other, so I giv it to Mr. Preston for ’er. And Bess didn’t giv me no penny.”

“I’ll give ye the penny,” said Chiswick, “and another for this ’un if ye’ll run with it. But ye mustn’t give it to no Mr. Preston. Maybe ’e never give it to ’er. And ye’d best bide yer chance, and slip it into ’er ’and when nobody ain’t by.”

The child stared open-mouthed.

“But Bess ain’t at ’ome,” said she. “She ’ave goned away.”

His heart dropped.

“Gone away!” muttered he, stupidly.

“Iss, well-nigh upon a month ago,” said the little one.

He passed his hand across his forehead. He had told her to wait—for that he had nearly got a home ready for her now, and that he was surely coming to fetch her—coming very soon. She could never have got his letter. But if she had gone she could only have gone to him. How was it he had missed her? A horror came over him! Had he ever told her where he lived in London? A month ago! Where had she been during that long month?

“Maybe she ’ave come ’ome agin now,” said he feebly. “You run up and see, there’s a good little girl. And if she ain’t there, you ask Mr. Benson if they ’aven’t got no news of ’er. But don’t say I sent ye, mind. Only come and tell me arterwards and you shall ’ave a whole sixpence. I’ll wait for you in the wood—see, yonder by the gate.”

The child nodded and ran away pleased, and Charley climbed the grassy slope and cut across the common to the wood.

It was not till he was there that it struck him he was standing by the very gate where he had stood one windy night, seven months ago—with her. It had been a rough night then; yet, though sad indeed at parting, they were full of courage and hope: the sky was blue now and the world was full of promise, but in his breast he knew that hope was dying.

He stood there, gazing. Behind the ricks and barns the smoke from the farm-house chimney curled up to a cruelly placid heaven amid the budding boughs of the elms; the sheep browsed peacefully upon the pastures, and the little lambs played to and fro, but Bess did not come stealing forth and running across amongst them, joyful too, as he had so often pictured her to himself at this meeting. Bess did not come, and there was no peace in his heart; he was frightened—frightened at the awful “inevitable” that he saw marching upon him.

Presently the little maid issued forth alone, and crept crying across the mead. It was long before she took courage to come to him, long before he could still her sobs enough to hear her words.

Farmer had got hold of her, Farmer had sworn at her, and she was frightened. For when she had asked for Bess, he had said a bad word, and had talked very loud, and had looked very fierce, and had made her cry. Pressed as to what he had said, she sobbed out that he had sworn “Bess would never come ’ome no more,” that he “didn’t know where she was, nor didn’t care, for ’e never wanted to see ’er no more,” and that any person, little girl or other, who should come inquiring for her would be treated “same as” herself.

The sobs had burst into a howl at the end of this speech, but Charley stood as one dazed, gazing out through the soft evening light upon the quiet landscape with a mist before his eyes. He attempted no comfort, and the child cried on, stopping sometimes to gaze at him amazed. But at last he seemed to shake himself, and, fetching a deep sigh, put his hand in his pocket and gave a sixpence to the little one, bidding her run home to tea.

She needed no second persuasion, and when she was gone he turned slowly away and went down the hill to the station. He had made up his mind now. If Bess had gone, she had gone to try and find him. He must go back to London, he must go back to every place in that vast and terrible city where he had ever set foot. He would not let himself remember that it was an absolutely foolish and bootless search: it was all he could do, and he must do it at once.

But at the station they told him that there was no train for an hour and a half, and he turned into the “Public” hard by to get something to keep up his spirits before starting.

The bar was full, for it was a Saturday, and tongues were wagging noisily. But there was a lull as he came in, and he was sure—yes, he was quite sure this time—that men looked at him curiously.

He nodded carelessly to those whom he knew, and walking up to the counter ordered his drink.

A young man stood beside it: a short, thick-set young man with flaxen hair. He didn’t know him, and they did not speak, but a lad of about his own age lounged up to him.

“Well, Charley Chiswick, gettin’ on pretty fair since ye left the old place?” asked he.

The fair young man turned round and looked at Charley on hearing this; he noticed it.

“Yes, thank ye,” said he to the questioner, “nicely. It were a fight at first, but I’ve got my foot well in now.”

“London?” inquired an old labourer laconically, between the puffs of his pipe.

“Yes,” replied the lad.

“What trade?” asked a third.

“Carpentering,” said Charley. “I’m in a good firm now—City ways.”

There was a pause, and then the first speaker volunteered the information that “Farmer Benson ain’t come to no better mind ’bout that right o’ way, and ’ave took to drink wus nor ever,” and that he didn’t suppose “Farmer Chiswick’d give in neither.”

“I never knowed my father to give in,” said Charley, half sadly.

“No,” agreed the other, “if old folks weren’t so darned obstinate, there mightn’t be so much mischief in the world as what there is! It serve ’em right—it do!”

Charley looked up quickly. There seemed somehow to be more in this speech than it said; but the fellow who had spoken it slunk away and retired into the background, and again the lad felt as though many eyes were upon him; and he began to guess why: folk pitied him. He drank his glass in silence, and thought he would go and wait in the lanes till his time was up.

But some one in the background wanted to have his word too, and called out cheerily:

“So now ye ’ave come back to look arter the young ’ooman yourself, eh? I call it real ’ansome of ye, Charley, on’y it’s a bit late.”

There was a murmur of “Hush!” all round, but the speaker, who seemed to have had a drop too much, would not be silenced.

“Preston ’ere’s the one to tell ye most obout ’er,” laughed he. “’E ’ad the last buss. That old rascal up at the Farm’d ’ave made ’er wed ’im, but ’e can thank ’is stars ’e’s well out o’ that.”

Folk surrounded the mischievous talker, and argued with him, and Preston accosted young Chiswick.

“Don’t ye believe a word of it,” said he in an undertone. “Your girl wouldn’t ’ave none o’ me. She told me so flat. And I guess that’s why she runned away.”

“Thank ye,” said Charley huskily, holding out his hand which the other grasped.

“I’d never ’ave asked ’er if I’d ha’ known the rights of it,” added the young farmer, “but I live over t’other side o’ the county, and I hadn’t heard no talk then. But she were true to ye, and if she’d ’ave ’ad a sight o’ that letter....”

“Ay,” said the lad eagerly, “that was my letter ... what of it?”

“Why, t’ old villain burned it afore ’er very eyes, and she not read a word of it,” said Preston.

Charley clutched the counter; he was dizzy. He knew now that his last hope had vanished: it was impossible that she should know where to seek him in London. His head dropped forward.

“But you mustn’t believe one word o’ what they say agin ’er,” began the farmer once more, “for I’d take my oath....”

He did not finish his sentence, for the head went up again.

“Say agin ’er?” repeated the lad slowly, but in a clear voice.

Preston looked foolish, but the meddler in the background, whom the peacemakers had not been able to quiet, pushed up to the bar.

“Well, ’say agin ’er’” mimicked he. “And what shouldn’t they say agin ’er? You’re well out of it, my lad, and Preston ’ere too. She’s no better nor she should be. Why, ’twas plain to every eye.”

The boy’s face went crimson and then dead white again.

“Ye lie,” said he in a clear voice again, looking round steadily on the little company: “ye lie.”

For a moment there was a disagreeable silence, and in that silence there flashed suddenly into the lover’s mind the true explanation of this awful aspersion upon his girl.

He was a father! More than ever now must he find her. He would find her, but first of all he would avenge her. He stood stock still, and those who watched him wondered perhaps at the strange variety of expression that flitted across his face.

Bess was true to him, Bess was the mother of his child ... and he waited for his adversary to come on.

For he knew well enough that the word he had spoken would not pass unnoticed; the man to whom he had said it was in drink, and his rage was the quicker and the more unreasoning.

But lest there should be any mistake, Charley repeated the word.

“You lie,” he said again. “And if ye don’t like that ye may come on.”

And the man came on. The others no longer attempted to hold him back; they only watched to see fair play.

But they did not watch long.

Charley’s adversary was a little man, but he had the strength of two ordinary men, and, if the poor lad had known it, was the best boxer in the county.

He did not know it, but it would not have made any difference.

He staggered under the first blow, but dealt a good one in return, and prepared for the second. But the second threw him.

There was a laugh, and they looked to see this man, who was so quick to take offence yet was so easily beaten, get up to defend himself.

But Charley did not get up.

There was a confused murmur that gradually grew to dismay. Those nearest the door went out, and those surrounding the boxer dragged him quickly after them, as the landlady—summoned by the barmaid—came hastily round to the front.

She threw a scathing word at the gaping knot of ne’er-do-wells that was left. In a moment the place was cleared of all but one man, who knelt with her beside the prostrate body: it was young Preston.

“Shall I fetch the doctor?” he said.

“The barmaid’s gone,” answered the woman.

She did what she could for him, but she shook her head.

Once he opened his eyes, but his mind was gone before.

“Is it a boy or a girl, Bess?” he said. And then he murmured—“Bless you—my wife!”

It was his last word.

When the doctor ran in it was too late; Charley Chiswick was dead. He had struck his head in falling against the iron of the fender; and there was another cause too—a faulty heart. It wouldn’t even be manslaughter at the inquest.

But Charley Chiswick was dead.

When Jim Preston got home that night he found a letter waiting for him. It was from the Sister-in-charge of a London Hospital, and told him that Bess Benson had died that morning after prematurely giving birth to a son. The girl had asked her to write to him and to beg him to find Charley Chiswick, and tell him that he was a father. After that she had sunk into unconsciousness, and had not known that her babe had passed away before her.

Jim Preston stood dazed with the letter in his hand. He remembered how he had offered to serve her that day when he had told her that he should not change, though he would trouble her no more. She had taken him at his word, she had trusted him, unwelcome lover though he had been; yes, she had trusted him—and him only. He was grateful to her.

He gazed at the message—the useless message from a dead mother and a dead child to the father who had followed them before it had reached him. Then he put the letter in his breast-pocket and buttoned his coat tightly across it.