The baby was born, and Robert less inclined
for home than ever.  He hated to hear it
cry—and what baby will not cry?— and he
hated to see his wife nurse and fondle it.
And how are babies to live, if wives don't
nurse and fondle them?

Things went on in this manner; only
getting worse as Robert fell from weariness
to neglect, from neglect to dislike, and finally
to ill-usage. Every tear from Janet was a
reproach vehemently resented; every caress
an annoyance brutally rejected; her plaintive
voice was the very thing to drive him from
home for amusement, and her forced
cheerfulness sent him out of doors for quiet.
Sad or gay, smiles or tears, love or reproach—
it was all the same; he would be ill-used, and
find an excuse for himself in her conduct.

Another baby was born—almost within the
year—making such a rapid advance towards
a patriarchal condition of household that
Robert talked moodily of the workhouse.
But Janet thought that drink, not babies,
would bring him to the workhouse, if ever
he went there.

Things grew worse daily; Janet had black
eyes and bruised lips often now, and her gait
and actions were those of a person badly
lamed. Robert had taken to beat her
whenever he was tipsy—which was almost
every night—till sometimes she thought he
would murder her. And if it had not been
for the children, she would rather have
preferred his putting her out of the way, as she
called it; if he would not have been hung
for it!

One morning she rose early, after a night
of heavy, dreamless sleep. But not so early
as her husband, whose place by her was
empty. As she glanced round the room,
something strange and unfamiliar struck her.
She did not at first understand what it was,
but soon the open drawers, the rifled boxes,
the scattered furniture, told her that she had
been robbed while she slept so heavily that
past night. Trembling she called her husband;
but no one answered. Hurrying on a few
clothes she ran downstairs, where a scene
of infinitely worse confusion shocked and
frightened her still more. The little stock of
plate, partly bought by her own money,
partly given by good Miss Harrington, and
greatly prized, was gone; the best of the
books—not best for their contents but for
their bindings, which was all Robert Maylin
was likely to think of— had likewise gone;
the portable little prettinesses about the
house; and, when Janet came to examine
more minutely into matters, a small sum of
money, which she had saved as a beginning for
the children, had been carried off. All her
best gowns and shawls were missing as well,
and Robert Maylin with them. An amethyst
brooch, which Miss Harrington had given her
on her wedding-day; a little alabaster figure
of more beauty than worth, but which Janet
had loved almost like a living creature; and
an old-fashioned gold watch that had been an
heir-loom in the family for generations, and
which was popularly believed to have belonged
to that fabulous squire, whom most country
families claim as their original progenitor--
these had disappeared, together with the
rest; and poor Janet felt utterly bereft of
every possession in the world.

Search was made throughout the country;
but Robert Maylin was not to be found.
Janet was obstinate in her belief in ditches
and drunkenness, and often expressed her
conviction that her husband would turn up
again somehow. She refused positively to
look on him as the thief, and used to cry
bitterly when her neighbours, in their rough
way, asserted that her own husband had
robbed her. He might desert her, because
he no longer loved her; but how could she
think him capable of such a wickedness as
this? However, a letter from Liverpool set
the matter at rest. For, without touching on
the robbery, Master Robert coolly asserted
his intention of proceeding forthwith to the
United States, whither he was driven, he
said, by the fear of a large family, and from
whence he would return when he could
support his wife and children as became him.
It was an artful letter, and left a large margin
for future events. It ended by exhorting
Janet to be a sensible girl, and not to fret
after him; that he should work for her, and
she would be better without him. In which
opinion many of the villagers concurred.

Janet found that loneliness is not always
friendlessness. As if called up by magic, a
host of kind hands pressed round her in her
hour of need; a host of kind hearts offered
her their sympathy, and loving faces spoke their
pity. Miss Harrington was generous and acid
as usual. She rated Janet for hours together
for her folly in marrying that good-for-
nothing fellow; for her wickedness in having
two children so fast on each other's heels,
when she had nothing to give them; and for
her babyish belief in the possibility of any
other robber than her husband. At the same
time, she gave the babies food and clothing,
and set up Janet as a green-grocer in the
neighbouring town; for which business her
apprenticeship in her husband's market-
garden peculiarly fitted her.

Time wore on, and fortune gave good gifts
to Janet. By steadiness to her business,
she gathered a large trade together.
Something, perhaps, was owing to her touching
history, and something also to her touching
manners; which, tranquil and gentle, had
such a tinge of melancholy in them, that
even a casual customer must have been won
over. Her children were her pride, Well
dressed, well educated, they might stand
amongst the children of far grander people
than she, as pretty and oftentimes better
behaved than any of them. She did not spoil
them, though she sacrificed everything for
them, but she was bringing them up with