heaps were massed up, she dismounted and
led her steed, plunging in deep, with fierce
energy, the pain at her heart urging her
onwards with a sharp, digging spur.

The grey, solemn, winter's noon was more
night-like than the depth of summer's night;
dim purple brooded the low skies over the
white earth, as Susan rode up to what had
been Michael Hurst's abode, while living. It
was a small farm-house, carelessly kept
outside, slatternly tended within. The pretty
Nelly Hebthwaite was pretty still; her
delicate face had never suffered from any long-
enduring feeling. If anything, its expression
was that of plaintive sorrow; but the soft, light
hair had scarcely a tinge of grey, the wood-
rose tint of complexion yet remained, if not
so brilliant as in youth; the straight nose,
the small mouth were untouched by time.
Susan felt the contrast even at that moment.
She knew that her own skin was weather-
beaten, furrowed, brown,—that her teeth
were gone, and her hair grey and ragged.
And yet she was not two years older than
Nelly,—she had not been in youth, when she
took account of these things. Nelly stood
wondering at the strange-enough horsewoman,
who stood and panted at the door, holding
her horse's bridle, and refusing to enter.

"Where is Michael Hurst?" asked Susan,
at last.

"Well, I can't rightly say. He should have
been at home last night, but he was off seeing
after a public-house to be let at Ulverstone,
for our farm does not answer, and we were
thinking——"

"He did not come home last night?" said
Susan, cutting short the story, and half-
affirming, half-questioning by way of letting
in a ray of the awful light before she let it
full in, in its consuming wrath.

"No! he'll be stopping somewhere out
Ulverstone ways. I'm sure we've need of him
at home, for I've no one but lile Tommy
to help me tend the beasts. Things have not
gone well with us, and we don't keep a
servant now. But you're trembling all over,
ma'am. You'd better come in, and take
something warm, while your horse rests. That's
the stable-door, to your left."

Susan took her horse there; loosened his
girths, and rubbed him down with a wisp of
straw. Then she looked about her for hay;
but the place was bare of food, and smelt
damp and unused. She went to the house,
thankful for the respite, and got some
clapbread, which she mashed up in a pail-full of
lukewarm water. Every moment was a
respite, and yet every moment made her
dread the more the task that lay before her.
It would be longer than she thought at first.
She took the saddle off, and hung about her
horse, which seemed somehow more like a
friend than anything else in the world. She
laid her cheek against its neck, and rested
there, before returning to the house for the
last time.

Eleanor had brought down one of her
own gowns, which hung on a chair against
the fire, and had made her unknown visitor
a cup of hot tea. Susan could hardly bear all
these little attentions; they choked her, and yet
she was so wet, so weak with fatigue and
excitement that she could neither resist by
word or by action. Two children stood
awkwardly about, puzzled at the scene, and even
Eleanor began to wish for some explanation
of who her strange visitor was.

"You've may-be heard him speak of me?
I'm called Susan Dixon."

Nelly coloured, and avoided meeting
Susan's eye.

"I've heard other folk speak of you. He
never named your name."

This respect of silence came like balm to
Susan; balm not felt or heeded at the time
it was applied, but very grateful in its effects
for all that.

"He is at my house," continued Susan,
determined not to stop or quaver in the
operation—the pain which must be
inflicted.

"At your house? Yew Nook?"
questioned Eleanor, surprised. " How came he
there?" half-jealously. "Did he take shelter
from the coming storm ? Tell me,— there
is something—tell me, woman!"

"He took no shelter. Would to God he
had!"

"O! would to God! would to God!"
shrieked out Eleanor, learning all from the
woeful import of those dreary eyes. Her
cries thrilled through the house; the
children's piping wailings and passionate cries on
"Daddy! Daddy!" pierced into Susan's very
marrow. But she remained as still and tearless
as the great round face upon the clock.

At last, in a lull of crying she said,—not
exactly questioning—but as if partly to
herself,—

"You loved him, then ?"

"Love him! he was my husband! He
was the father of three bonny bairns that lie
dead in Grasmere Churchyard. I wish you'd
go, Susan Dixon, and let me weep without
your watching me! I wish you'd never
come near the place."

"Alas! alas! it would not have brought
him to life. I would have laid down my own
to save his. My life has been so very sad!
No one would have cared if I had died.
Alas! alas!"

The tone in which she said this was so
utterly mournful and despairing that it awed
Nelly into quiet for a time. But by-and-bye
she said, "I would not turn a dog out to do it
harm; but the night is clear, and Tommy
shall guide you to the Red Cow. But, O!
I want to be alone. If you'll come back to-
morrow, I'll be better, and I'll hear all, and
thank you for every kindness you have shown
him,—and I do believe you've showed him
kindness,—though I don't know why."

Susan moved heavily and strangely.