Made him what he is! What was he?

Gathering, gathering along the narrow
street, came a hollow measured sound; now
forcing itself on their attention. Many voices
were hushed and low; many steps were
heard, not moving onwards, at least not with
any rapidity or steadiness of motion, but as if
circling round one spot. Yes, there was one
distinct, slow tramp of feet, which made itself a
clear path through the air, and reached their
ears; the measured laboured walk of men
carrying a heavy burden. They were all
drawn towards the house door by some
irresistible impulse; impelled thither—not by a
poor curiosity, but as if by some solemn
blast.

Six men walked in the middle of the
road, three of them being policemen. They
carried a door, taken off its hinges, upon their
shoulders, on which lay some dead human
creature; and from each side of the door
there were constant droppings. All ihe street
turned out to see, and seeing, to accompany
the procession, each one questioning
the bearers, who answered almost reluctantly
at last, so often had they told the tale.

"We found him in the brook in the field
beyond there."

"The brook!—why there's not water
enough to drown him!"

"He was a determined chap. He lay with
his face downwards. He was sick enough o'
living, choose what cause he had for it."

Higgins crept up to Margaret's side, and
said in a weak piping kind of voice: "It's
not John Boucher! He had na spunk enough.
Sure! It's not John Boucher! Why, they
are a' looking this way! Listen! I've a
singing in my head, and I cannot hear."

They put the door down carefully upon
the stones, and all might see the poor
drowned wretch—his glassy eyes, one half
open, staring right upwards to the sky.
Owing to the position in which he had been
found lying, his face was swollen and
discoloured; besides, his skin was stained by
the water in the brook, which had been used
for dying purposes. The fore part of his head
was bald; but the hair grew thin and long
behind, and every separate lock was a
conduit for water. Through all these
disfigurements, Margaret recognised John
Boucher. It seemed to her so sacrilegious to
be peering into that poor distorted, agonised
face, that, by a flash of instinct, she went
forwards and softly covered the dead man's
countenance with her handkerchief. The
eyes that saw her do this followed her, as she
turned away from her pious office, and were
thus led to the place where Nicholas
Higgins stood, like one rooted to the spot.
The men spoke together, and then one of
them came up to Higgins, who would have
fain shrunk back into his house.

"Higgins, thou knowed him! Thou mun
go tell the wife. Do it gently, man, but do it
quick, for we canna leave him here long."

"I canna go," said Higgins. "Dunnot
ask me. I canna face her."

"Thou knows her best," said the man.
"We have done a deal in bringing him here
—thou take thy share."

"I canna do it," said Higgins. "I'm
welly felled wi' seeing him. We was'nt
friends; and now he's dead."

"Well, if thou wunnot thou wunnot. Some
one mun though. It's a dree task; but it's
a chance, every minute, as she does'nt hear
on it in some rougher way nor a person
going to make her let on by degrees, as it
were."

"Papa, do you go," said Margaret, in a
low voice.

"If I could—if I had time to think of
what I had better say; but all at once——"
Margaret saw that her father was indeed
unable. He was trembling from head to
foot.

"I will go," said she.

"Bless yo, miss, it will be a kind act; for
she's been but a sickly sort of body, I hear,
and few hereabouts know much on her."

Margaret knocked at the closed door; but
there was such a noise, as of many little ill-
ordered children, that she could hear no
reply; indeed, she doubted if she was heard,
and as every moment of delay made her
recoil from her task more and more, she
opened the door and went in, shutting it after
her, and even, unseen to the woman, fastening
the bolt.

Mrs. Boucher was sitting in a rocking-
chair on the other side of the ill-redd
up fireplace; it looked as if the house had
been untouched for days by any effort at
cleanliness.

Margaret said something, she hardly knew
what, her throat and mouth were so dry, and
the children's noise completely prevented her
being heard. She tried again.

"How are you, Mrs. Boucher? But very
poorly, I'm afraid."

"I've no chance o' being well," said she
querulously. "I'm left all alone to manage
these childer, and nought for to give 'em for
to keep 'em quiet. John should na ha' left
me, and me so poorly."

"How long is it since he went away?"

"Four days sin'. No one would give him
work here, and he'd to go on tramp toward
Greenfield. But he might ha' been back
afore this, or sent me some word if he'd
getten work. He might——"

"Oh, don't blame him," said Margaret.
"He felt it deeply, I'm sure——"

"Will ta' hold thy din, and let me hear
the lady speak! " addressing herself in no
very gentle voice to a little urchin of about
a year old. She apologetically continued to
Margaret, "He's always mithering me for
'daddy' and 'butty;' and I ha'no butties to
give him, and daddy's away, and forgotten
us a', I think. He's his father's darling, he
is," said she, with a sudden turn of mood,