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'POSTLE FARM 
 
r 
 
 POSTLE FARM 
 
 w 
 
 GEORGE FORD 
 
 AUTHOK OP 'thb LARRAMVS,' BTC. 
 
 The VV. J. GAGE CO., Limited, 
 TORONTO. 
 
year 1899. j ^a*- n. j. uaoe Company. Limited, iu the 
 
TO 
 
 9 of the 
 > iu the 
 
 Tins BOOK IS GRATEFULLY 
 DEDICATED. 
 
w 
 
TOSTLE FARM. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 Two men stood together in the dark. The trees 
 surged to and fro in the wailing autumn wind. 
 " Will you do this ? Yes or no ? " 
 " Oh sir ! 'tis a cruel thing for ask ! " 
 " Will you do it ? Yes or no ? " 
 " Please, sir, give me time for think ! " 
 " There is no time to give. Yes or no ? " 
 "I've always loved 'ee, sir! But ain't there no 
 way out of it ? " 
 
 " None. I am in extremity ? I want your help." 
 Then the other man trembled exceedingly. 
 
"You shall have it, sir." he said at last. "I'll 
 do it I" 
 
 A week later, a man hurried through the dark- 
 night with a burden in his arms. 
 
 He reached the river. Unmooring a boat, he 
 rowed out into the stream. Half an hour later he 
 came back 
 
 This time he carried no burden. 
 
tt f »1 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 THE DARKEST HOUR 
 
 fj 
 
t 
 1. 
 
 h 
 a 
 
 t) 
 
 b 
 ei 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 TOSTLE Farm had gained its name, generations 
 back, from the row of elm » trees that shadowed 
 its thatched buildings. There were twelve of these 
 elms, and in the neighbourhood they went by the 
 name of the " Twelve Apostles." 
 
 When the walls of the farm were reared under 
 their shelter, the place was called "Apostle Farm"; 
 and later the A was dropped, and " Tostle Farm '' 
 was its name, and few people knew or cared about 
 its origin. 
 
 These old time-honoured elms had stood the 
 blast of many a winter wind, and blossomed when 
 the- springtime came, and spread out their [-reen 
 leaves to shelter the mating rooks. Some of the 
 branches had grown and spread till they formed 
 a second roof over the thatch one that sheltered 
 the main building. 
 
 There was something, on the whole, a wee bit 
 bleak and forbidding in the place— though homely 
 enough, doubtless, to any but Devonians. But to 
 them it had a scant look, the fields being divided 
 
'POSTI,E FARM. 
 
 by low stone walls instead of luxuriant hedges. 
 The land lay on either side of a ridge of hills, 
 along the steep sides of which even the constant 
 rains of Devon could find no resting-place. Con- 
 sequently, neither was there luxuriance of growth ; 
 but the short grey grass was sweet, and sheep 
 throve and fattened on it, and footrot was never 
 known among the flocks. 
 
 Very healthy it was, for man and beast, with 
 the tidal river washing the western side of the 
 ridge, bringing up the salt sea-breezes twice a-day, 
 and the whiff of the brown seaweed. The grey 
 walls of the farm were weather beaten and bare. 
 Not a creeper covered them : even the clinging 
 ivy had forborne to turn to them for support. 
 The old iiouse stood like a Spartan chief, scorn- 
 ing home lies, ready only to bear the brunt of 
 the storm, and unimpressed by the wreathing sun- 
 light. 
 
 Some houses seem alive. They speak, they 
 smile : they tell of love, and breathe of hope, and 
 sing of happy lives within. Others neither speak 
 nor smile : they are dumb. With finger on mouth, 
 and cold eyes that will not see, and ears that will 
 not hear, they raise their walls of impenetrable 
 silence. And one tries to picture their inner life ; 
 smiling faces, joyous voices, happy laughter. But 
 no ; one's mind returns unto one void. 
 
 Does one live there? Does any one laugh and 
 sing there? 
 
THE DARKEST HOUR. 
 
 So with Tostlc Farm. 
 
 It was Sunday afternoon. Not a creature moved 
 about. A stranger wandering round might have 
 supposed the plague had stricken the dwellers 
 within, the cattle without, and not one remained. 
 
 The sky was deep blue. The wood on the side 
 of the hill was beginning to tremble with the first 
 faint green of the larch. Here and there a patch 
 of g(>;se blazed. High overhead the song of larks. 
 At one's feet a myriad daisies. 
 
 Then suddenly over the brow of the hill came 
 two children, skipping hand in hand. One was 
 fair, with the dazzling pink-and-white complexion 
 for which the county is famous. A pretty child : 
 the child for whom one searches in one's pocket 
 for stray halfpence. The other had tawny locks 
 growing in wild disorder, and brown eyes that 
 flashed sunlight, like a limpid stream where the 
 waters are deep. 
 
 Hand in hand they came, and as they came they 
 
 sang— 
 
 "There is an ol' water-witch, 
 And an evil eye has she ! 
 She lives on grasses that -row in the ditch, 
 \nd trips up children from school tliat niitch ; 
 And that does she ! and that does slie ! 
 An' mun calls her the Witch o' FamnieL-.ec ! " 
 
 Light and blithe of heart were they. If it rained, 
 or the sun shone, it made no difference to them.' 
 Like the lilies, they toiled not, neither did the> spin. 
 
i ' 
 
 
 \< { 
 
 8 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 There was no occasion for them to take thought for 
 the morrow ; the morrow took thought for itself. 
 
 "'There is an ol' water- witch— * 
 
 How does'n go on?" asked Cathie, shaking back 
 her thick hair. 
 
 " Oh ! don't 'ee know ? They took an' sticked a 
 bullock's heart o' pins, an' 'er died ! " 
 
 " Us won't 'ave that. Us'll 'ave 'er was a-made a 
 fine lady, wi' dresses to clothey 'ersel*, an' money, 
 an' servants for fend for her!" 
 
 "But that ain't the rights o' it!" objected the 
 matter-of-fact Bessie. 
 
 "Never mind the rights o't. The rights o't be 
 just what I makk o't ! Us'll 'ave daisy chains ! " 
 She finished suddenly, throwing herself on the grass. 
 
 " Do 'ee like heartseases ? " inquired Bessie. 
 
 " Ees ; they be like faces — crowds o' mun. An* 
 when the wind blow'th, 'tis like as if they was a- 
 niddin' an' a-noddin' to 'ee!" 
 
 " Go 'long ! Flowers can't nid an' nod to 'ee ! ** 
 
 " Fey they can ! " 
 
 " You'm always speakin' up ol' rummage ! They 
 can't, and I shall ask mother whether mun can 
 or no." 
 
 Cathie bent forward. 
 
 " Hark I " she cried, " there's Grandfer fiddlin' ! " 
 
 " No 'c ain't ! " said Bessie, whose duller ears the 
 sound did not reach. "Vou'm always hearin' what 
 no other folks can't!" 
 
 
 i 
 
THE DARKEST HOUR. 
 
 Catherine started runninf]^, and Bessie got up 
 slowly and followed her. She presently caught 
 the sound of fiddling too, and the two children 
 ran into the farmyard together. For a minute 
 or two they could not make out from whence 
 the sound came. Finally. Grand fer was discovered 
 seated behind a water-butt, fiddling away to his 
 heart's content. 
 
 The children began to dance. Brown locks and 
 gold locks tossed in the still spring air in time 
 to the movement of their nimble feet ; their eyes 
 sparkled, their colour heightened. Grandfer rose 
 from behind th-^ water-butt, still fiddling, and led 
 the way through the farmyard, on to the hillside 
 starred with daisies. And after him the children 
 came dancing. 
 
 Then at last he drew his bow with a crash 
 across the strings, and the children threw them- 
 selves breathless and laughing on the ground. 
 
 Grandfer was a fine-featured blue-eyed old man, 
 somewhat shrunken now, but tall still. He looked 
 at the children as they lay panting on the grass, 
 liut his eye rested longer on the taller, darker girl ; 
 the fair blue- eyed Bessie was only a neighbour's 
 child. Indeed Cathie drew the eye always, no 
 matter whether you were kith and kin to her 
 or not. She commanded attention like flashes of 
 lightning. 
 
 The old man sat down beside the children. The 
 sun was setting now behind the opposite ridge of 
 
10 
 
 •POSTLE FARM. 
 
 ,* \l 
 
 hills, leaving a path of ruddy gold across the full 
 bosom of the river. It caught the upper turrets 
 of Upcott Hall standing embowered in trees, and 
 wrapped for the greater part in impenetrable 
 gloom. 
 
 Then the sun set, and the grey twilight fell 
 upon the lonely hills like a sigh — half sad, half 
 satisfied. Grandfer rose and turned homewards. 
 Cathie, wearied with her dancing, hung on to his 
 coat-tails, and Bessie limped fretfully behind. She 
 had got a pebble in her shoe, and discarded Cathie's 
 practical advice to "tak'n out an' 'ave done wi' itl " 
 
II 
 
 ^ 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 "The me-aid dances zame as cef 'er were posscssed- 
 like ! " said Grandfer, as he sat before the fire smok- 
 ing his evening pipe. " Tis amazin' > or zee 'er ! " 
 
 Near him sat his daughter hushing her child to 
 sleep. She was a sad-eyed delicate-looking woman, 
 with a mass of pale red hair. Opposite sat Miah, 
 his son-in-law, a coarse, large man, with a fair com- 
 plexion, which the sun and the wind, and large 
 potions of home-brewed ale, had turned to a dis- 
 agreeable brick-red. 
 
 " 'Er zeem'th mortal queer, any gait," he answered 
 slowly, taking the pipe from his mouth and spitting 
 copiously on the hearthstone. " Mollard telled me c 
 meet 'er up nine o'clock — or zome after — riL^ht 
 agin the churchyard, an' the 'ead-stones a-showin' 
 up white, an' 'er makkin' not a bit o' differ'nce— 
 Zcime's if 'er was i' broad daylight an' the hens a- 
 cacklin', instead o' foggy moonlight an' the owls a- 
 hootin'i" 
 
 " Wheer bey 'er now ? " inquired Grandfer, turning 
 to his daughter Annie. 
 
13 
 
 'rOSTLK FARM. 
 
 ( 1 
 'i J ' 
 
 ilii ;■ 
 
 '1 i 
 
 " Out an' 'bout," the woman answered wearily ; 
 •"er won't be kep' in!" 
 
 "'Er tak's after Liza, don't 'er ? " inquired Miah. 
 '• 'Er was a gad-about, I've ycrt tell." 
 
 H*» narrowed his eyes disagreeably, and Grandfcr 
 moved uneasily. 
 
 " Liza was a honest me-aid," he murmured — *• a 
 honest me-aid." 
 
 He got up presently and reached his hat down 
 from behind the door. 
 
 " Where be gwin, vather } " his daughter asked. 
 
 " Vor vind the little me-aid. 'Er didn't ought vor 
 bey a-brooard these time o' night." 
 
 The woman sighed. 
 
 " *Er will be," she said ; " 'er will do as 'er's minded 
 to." 
 
 Grandfer went out, and the door slammed heavily 
 to behind him. 
 
 There was silence in the kitchen save for the slow 
 creak of the rocking-chair as the sad-eyed woman 
 hushed the child to sleep. Presently she ceased 
 rocking and opened out her arm. The little heavy 
 head fell back ; the tired limbs relaxed. The child 
 was sleeping. 
 
 " Us ought for kill the pig this week," said Miah. 
 
 The woman did not answer. She stirred the 
 child's curls lightly with her thin fingers. 
 
 "Do 'ee 'ear?" 
 
 " I've a - got they spasms, so bad again," the 
 woman said faintly. 
 
 ;i ' 
 
 m 
 
THE DARKEST HOUR. 
 
 «3 
 
 " You an' yer spasms ! " the man answered scorn- 
 fully. 
 
 " Tis 'eavy work liftin' o' the slabs." 
 
 " Ye an't got no 'cart to it, that what it be ! If it 
 weren't for *ee," nodding at Grandfcr's empty chair, 
 "I'd knock the nonsense out o' 'ee!" 
 
 The woman made no answer ; not even silent 
 tears welled into her eyes. Her tears lay in a deep 
 frozen well. Kind words might bring them — but 
 only to wash over the surface an instant, and be 
 frozen like tiie rest. 
 
 She sat silent, her eyes wandering from the fire to 
 the child, from the child to the fire. And ever 
 when they came back to the child, a ray of subdued 
 joy shot from them, like pale wintery sunlight 
 through yellow leaves. 
 
 He was a picture of a child ! Fair curls clustered 
 — now with a healthy dampness — round the temple ; 
 long lashes swept the soft pink cheek ; the red lips 
 were parted. The nother raised him gently and 
 placed him in the cot. The beautiful, round, 
 white, dimpled limbs sank on to the pillow, and 
 there was not so much as the quiver of an 
 eyelid. The mother's touch had left him sleeping 
 still. 
 
 The clock struck nine, — nine long wheezy strokes. 
 Grandfer's step came over the yard, and with it the 
 dancing steps of Cathie, like a peal of merry bells 
 beside a tolling one. 
 
 "Go now, ma-deear, toy bade," he said as they 
 
 m 
 
14 
 
 'rOSTLE FARM. 
 
 entered, "an' dun 'ec go vor wander night-times. 
 Tlic pexics '11 'ave ee ! " 
 
 " I yert mun laughin* as I come over 'ill to- 
 night," she answered. 
 
 " Ay, ay, they bey wide wak'. I mind when my 
 gild woman was a-livin' an' I went out dade o' night, 
 they 'emmed me een's 'igher fiel' zo's I cudd'n get 
 out no ways 'vore I vixed my determination like, 
 an' went over 'idge." 
 
 " Bain' 'ee bootiful ? " said Cathie, bending over the 
 cradle. 
 
 '• Catch 'old to 'andle, Cathie, will 'ee," said Annie 
 wearily, "an' 'clp me up over stairs wi' un ?" 
 
 Panting, and often pausing for breath, the woman 
 led the way, till Cathie suddenly caught the cradle 
 in her strong young arms and ran up the remainder 
 of the stairs alone, looking down from the top and 
 laughing. The lamp Annie carried threw Cathie's 
 face into strong light and heavy shadow, till she 
 might have been a laughing pixie caught fresh from 
 the moorland. 
 
 " Oh ! my God ! " the woman said, with her hand 
 pressed against her side, " what would 1 give tor 
 strength likey that!" 
 
 ;ii ■ i; 
 
IS 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 One wet cold evening in the early part of Apri\ 
 Grandfcr took down his fiddle, and calling Cathie, 
 he cried — 
 
 " Now I'll tache 'ee vor viddle. " 
 
 She came running, her brown eyes sparkling. 
 
 " I played a tune t'other day, didn't I ?" she cried, 
 
 appealing to her aunt and eagerly taking the bow 
 
 the old man held out to her. 
 
 As one well accustomed to handle the instrument, 
 
 she tucked it under her chin and balanced the bow 
 
 as Grandfcr had taught her to as soon as she was 
 
 old enough to hold it steadily. 
 
 " Play'n ! " the old man said. " Let's yer'n." 
 
 Standing up before the great fireplace, with the 
 flickering flames now revealing her, now casting 
 tender shadows over her, as if they almost dreaded 
 to reveal her dawning beauty, Cathie drew the bow 
 with a masterly touch across the strings of the 
 instrument. 
 
 Then she played. 
 
 And Grandfer listened, and Annie swallowed 
 
i6 
 
 'roSTLl I' A KM. 
 
 
 Ihc lump that ro.sc in btr throat, atu4 llioufjht 
 of her jrirlhood, and the lover that the sea had 
 swalloweil, and the ^^)lden cheam that had melted 
 away long ago, giving place to the hard realities 
 of life. 
 
 The old familiar melody rose and fell. It 
 was different playing altogether from Grandfcr's. 
 It was all heart, all sobs and sighs, and tears 
 and smiles. 
 
 And Grandfer, listening, groaned beneath his 
 breath. 
 
 "Loord, what a drop o't '11 doy!" Then, "'Ow 
 doy *ee doy't, ma-deear? Tes amazin'. Danceth 
 an' play'th zo as never was ! Grandfer 'd bes' 
 geeve over viddlin' now. My vingers b'ain't zo 
 lithsome as they was, nether. Age overtak's 'ee, 
 an' laves 'ee no manner o' use — no manner o' use 
 at all!" 
 
 Cathie dropped on her knees beside the old •^••'•♦v 
 chair. The flame flashed up and showed tea. 
 her eyes. 
 
 " I shan't never touch the ol' fiddle more ! " she 
 said. " Sinth 'e mak's 'ee feel bad, I won't never 
 handle un more 1 " 
 
 *' God bless 'ee ! 'er's that warm-'earted ! " the old 
 man said, gazing at her with an expression almost 
 of awe and reverence. " Dear heart ! dear heart ! " 
 he murmured, '* what a cruel wecked contrairy world 
 it bey ! " 
 
 " Vor why then } " she asked. '* Because I can 
 
 
THE DARKliST HOUR. 
 
 «r 
 
 fitldic ? Because I can dance ? Play now, Grandfer. 
 an' see mc foot it ! " 
 
 Thus beguiled, the old man took up his fiddle 
 wiu. lin^'crinfT lovingr fm^vrs. Content came back 
 to him, and his eyes sparkled as he watched Cathie 
 twirling on the hearth to the sound of his merr>' 
 
 his 
 
i8 
 
 n 
 
 ■A • 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 ll ! I 
 
 I'i.! 
 
 I: :l • 
 
 M : 
 
 ii ;''i 
 
 Content, however, was destined not to stay long 
 with Grandfer. 
 
 He was an upright and honourable old man, 
 and when he got to the silence of his chamber 
 that night he began to think instead of dropping 
 into his unual wholesome sleep. 
 
 He tossed from side to side of the bed ; he mur- 
 mured prayers ; even the Bible underneath his pillow 
 seemed unable to protect him. 
 
 At last he started up in bed, and beads of per- 
 spiration burst upon his brow. 
 
 "Oh! Loord, I'll zee toy't ! " he cried. "I'll 
 mak' it all zo plain's a pikestaff, Loord, eef 'e'U 
 only tak' off these unaisiness ! " 
 
 After that he lay quiet, and in a little while 
 fell asleep. 
 
 The next morning, after breakfast, he put on 
 all his best clothes. 
 
 " Where be gwin, vather ? " inquired Annie. " 'Ave 
 'ee mistook the day ? 'Tain't Saturday ! " 
 
THE DARKEST HOUR. 
 
 19 
 
 " I knows, I knows ! Business I've a-got what 
 11 tak' me away a hour or two." 
 
 He went into the yard, and drove out with Polly 
 in the springcart. 
 
 " What be 'e after ? " said Miah to himself. 
 
 Then, with a sudden thought, he put bridle on the 
 other mare and rode out after Grandfer. 
 
 He rode cautiously. He did not wish to be seen. 
 
 Grandfer drove along unconscious that he was 
 followed. 
 
 At length they reached the hill leading into 
 the town, and Grandfer proceeded, and crossed the 
 river by the bridge. 
 
 But Miah drew rein on the bank and watched. 
 Polly's white side was a good mark. He observed 
 Grandfer jogging along on the opposite bank of the 
 river, and kept him carefully in view until he turned 
 off beneath an ivied gateway. 
 
 "Ah!" said Miah, and there was knowledge, 
 satisfaction, and cunning in his tone. He rode 
 home in a brown-study. 
 
 When Cathie came in from school that afternoon 
 Grandfer called her. 
 
 "Ma-deear," he said, "nextest market day I'll a- 
 tak' 'ee along wi' me, eef 'ee be a good me-aid ! 
 Will 'ee like vor come } " 
 
 Cathi clapped her hands. 
 
 " Oh, Grandfer, I will be ever so good ! " she cried. 
 " An' will 'ee let me drive Polly up the 'ills ? " 
 
 '* Ees, ees, ma-deear, eef 'ee'm giid me-aid !" 
 
 • II 
 
20 
 
 POSTLE FARM. 
 
 hi 
 
 U 
 
 " It'll be takkin' of 'er away from 'er school in'," 
 said Miah. " When 'er 've a-passcd 'er standards, 'er 
 can bide 'long o' Annie for help." 
 
 " Never you mind the standards once in a way. 
 The me-aid be sharp 'nough to outstrip mun all." 
 
 " What they learns is A B C," said Cathie, twirling 
 round and round in the middle of the kitchen. 
 " Gome's that easy ! " 
 
 " 'Er bey a brave scholard!" said Grandfer proudly, 
 and looking at Miah. "A day off don't mak' no 
 manner o* differ'nce to 'er. Do't, ma-deear?" 
 
 *' No," said Cathie. " I know my g'ography 
 wi'out a stop ; " and she began to repeat at a 
 great rate all the chief towns in Europe. 
 
 " Look to thiccy ! " cried Grandfer ; " 'tis amazin' ! " 
 
 *"Tis," said Miah, turning his narrow eyes on 
 Grandfer. " Wheer do 'er get it from ? " 
 
 '* Ah ! the Loord's won'erful 'andy distri-butin' o' 
 brains," said Grandfer ; " 'tis as aisy for'n to put 
 mun one ple-ace as another." 
 
 " I reckon they'm forced for come accordin' to. 
 When I tills they early tettics, I don't ordain for 
 gather kidney beans. So far's I can mind, Liza 
 'adn't no more brain nor a rabbit." 
 
 " Ah, but 'ee never zeed 'er 'usband ! " 
 
 "Nor nobody else," said Miah. 
 
 Grandfer was walking towards the door, but he 
 wheeled round at this. 
 
 " Look 'ee 'ere ! I'm lusty yet ! " he cried. " None 
 o' your imperence under these roof! " 
 
THE DARKEST HOUR. 
 
 21 
 
 Miah muttered sulkily that he had meant non*.-. 
 In spite of his weight and strength he was a coward. 
 
 " Mind 'ee self, then !" said Grandfor, "or I'll 'ave 
 'ce out o' doo-or!" 
 
 The colour was high in the old man's cheek. His 
 finf]^crs twitched nervously. 
 
 " For love o' God, vather, keep quidt ! " said Annie, 
 trembling. 
 
 " Vor love o' God nor no man will I stan' by an* 
 zee muck drowed over the dead ! The dead can't 
 spake vor theirselves ; but 'ere's a man," and here 
 Grandfe tapped the chest that had once been broad 
 and full, — "'ere's a man, I zay, as can spake vor'n. 
 Liza was a good honest me-aid, an' the man as zays 
 other '11 *ave to pay the price o' 'is words to me ! " 
 
 So saying, the old man turned away; but when 
 he reached the door, he looked back and fixed his 
 flashing eye on Miah. Righteous indignation gives 
 a marvellous dignity to the human form. Even 
 where the form is poor and deformed, it becomes 
 in such a moment possessed of beauty. Grandfer 
 I had been a fine and handsome figure in h'5 day: 
 in this brief instant, youth came back once more 
 i through the worn-out frame. 
 
 How easy to picture eternal youth hereafter, 
 [when even here we can assume it for one beautiful 
 instant, — when the mind shines out through the 
 frail casket, revealing the eternal jewel within ! 
 
w 
 
 22 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 ■''■ 
 
 i 
 
 When market morning came, Cathie could scarcely 
 restrain her excited delight. As she mounted to 
 Grandfer's side, and settled herself while old Polly 
 moved slowly out of the yard, the beautiful little 
 face was wreathed in smiles. 
 
 Polly, though a reliable mare in the collar, was 
 not fast, and their progress along the highroad to 
 Upcott was therefore slow. But to the child it was 
 not wearisome : the rattle of the other carts that 
 overtook them, the cheery cries of " Mornin', Master 
 Tythycott!" as the neighbours jogged past them, 
 filled her with the sense of a wonderful workaday 
 world, where Master Tythycott was, after all, only a 
 
 unit. 
 
 They reached Upcott— all too soon for the child's 
 fancy — and Polly was tied up in the same box with 
 half-a-dozen other amiable mares, and the cart was 
 run back to the side of the road, with shafts in air, 
 to make the more room for others. 
 
 Then Grandfer began to make his progress to- 
 wards the .larket inn. But every other person he 
 
THE DARKEST HOUR. 
 
 23 
 
 encountered was "Hail fellow well met!" Now 
 and again he met an old friend, and then the two 
 (.Id cronies would stand together, shaking heads 
 and cracking jokes, till a sense of duty would strike 
 one or other of them, and he would say, " Well, us 
 nius' be movin' 'long ! Mak' 'aste while the sun 
 shin'th, as the proverb 'ath it ! " And winking their 
 blue eyes, and mirth glowing in their apple cheeks, 
 they would pass away from each other, making half 
 a million nods to the minute. 
 
 "Come, ma-dccar ! come 'long!" said Grandfer 
 at last, as if it had been the child who had loitered 
 and gossiped, — "come 'long now! come 'long! Us 
 mus'n bide so long about I " and he led the way 
 into the " Long Bider Inn." 
 
 Presumably this inn was called " Long Bider " 
 because people were supposed to be so comfortable 
 when they once got inside that they could not get 
 out again ! 
 
 Grandfer led the way into a little beery parlour, 
 where the heads of the people passing to and fro on 
 the other side of the wire window-blind made Cathie 
 quite giddy. Here he seated himself, and anxiously 
 waited ; and presently a friend arrived. 
 
 They shook hands, — not jovially, but seriously, as 
 men who have a heavy duty to perform. 
 
 The friend was an old, white-haired, wizened man 
 in black clothes. He turned slowly — after he and 
 Grandfer had been shaking hands with each other 
 a long minute without speaking — evidently for the 
 
 1' 
 
 ! 
 
\ i 
 
 24 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 ili' 
 
 purpose of observinf]^ the child. C.ifhic sat on the 
 window-sill. Her attitude had the graceiul inn i -ty 
 of a child unaccustomed to meeting strangers, but 
 her dark eyes glowed courageously as they met 
 the new-comer's. The stale smell of the carpels 
 and curtains had turned her pale. A glance was 
 sufficient for him. 
 
 " For God's sake ! " he cried., and he began to 
 tremble violently. 
 
 The child heard and wondered. 
 
 "'Tain't zo notticeable when 'er's coloured up 
 like," said Grandfer behind his hand. "'Er bey that 
 faint to 'er stomick, 'er turns away like that zo zoon 
 as 'er bey wheer it might 'appen be bit fusty- like." 
 
 "The Lord have mercy on us!" was all the old 
 man said again ; and he heaved a shuddering sigh, 
 and shambled towards the door, which he held open 
 wide, allowing the child to pass tlirough first. 
 
 The three of them proceeded up Market Street, 
 and presently down into a wider and quieter 
 thoroughfare. 
 
 " There 'tis ! " said Cathie, pointing opposite to 
 a brass plate on which was written — 
 
 " Messrs Thimberley and Makepeace^ 
 Solicitors!'' 
 
 She had caught the names as the two old men 
 walked forward in close conversation. Grandfer 
 started. Then he turned to his companion, " 'Er 
 be zo bright as a button ! " he exclaimed. 
 
Vl 
 
 THE DARKEST HOUR. 
 
 25 
 
 "CiiddCn bey no other," answered the other, and 
 they stopped at the br^ss plate and rang the bell. 
 
 " Oh, Grandfer, let me ring the bell ! " cried the 
 child, springing forward. But she was too late. 
 
 Her face clouded ; but just as she was thinking 
 whether she would not pout over it, she caught the 
 stranger's eye. She broke into a little sunny laugh, 
 aiui hid behind her grandfather's coat-sleeve. 
 
 The pale blue eyes of the little old man suffused 
 with tears. 
 
 "Grandfer, what be us gwin in 'ere fer?" asked 
 Cathie, as they waited. 
 
 " Hush, ma-deear ! " said Grandfer. 
 
 Then the office-boy opened the door, and thev 
 were shown into a room with two high counting- 
 desks, over the rails of which two young men 
 regarded them with curiosity, until the lawyer 
 appeared at the door of an adjoining room, when 
 they instantly became absorbed in their work, and 
 the scratching of their pens filled the silence. 
 
 The lawyer beckoned them into the inner room, 
 indicated chairs with a wave of the hand, seated 
 himself, and asked — 
 
 " Now, what can I do for you ? " 
 
 Grandfer, who was sitting with Cathie between 
 his knees, looked nervously towards his old white- 
 haired friend ; but the latter's agitation was so ex- 
 treme that he could not sufficiently command his 
 voice to speak. 
 
 The lawyer sat gnawing the tip of his thumb, ^inci 
 
 i ! 
 
26 
 
 'roSlLL FARM. 
 
 I ' 
 
 looking from one to the other with his narrow 
 dancing eyes. 
 
 Then the old white-haired man controlled himself. 
 
 '* If you please, sir," he said, edging his chair a 
 little nearer to the lawyer, — " if you please, sir — 
 of course, sir, I understand, sir, nothing that us 
 speaks now will go any further, sir ? " 
 
 The lawyer took his thumb from his mouth an 
 instant. 
 
 " Certainly not," he said. " We treat all our busi- 
 ness as strictly confidential." 
 
 The two old men hummed and hawed, and 
 looked at each other with painful indecision. The 
 lawyer gnawed his thumb. 
 
 " Us wants to make a kind of statement," at last 
 the little old man in black clothes said. " Us wants 
 to say something in black and white writ in clerkly 
 'and, and sjaled with the seal in a proper manner, 
 and us wants to sign it, both on us, and the little 
 maid to sign it too. Now, would that be proper 
 legal ? " 
 
 "What is the statement you wish to make?" 
 inquired the lawyer. 
 
 Again the two old men looked at each other 
 helplessly. 
 
 *' Mebbe," said Grandfer, on whose cheek a bright 
 pink spot now burned, — "mebbe," appealing to his 
 old friend — " mebbe us 'ud bes* ways leave it vor 
 'nother market?" 
 
 " No time like the present," said the lawyer. 
 
 were 
 Mrl 
 man, 
 peopl 
 able 
 facec 
 Th( 
 He 
 hands 
 
 :i'!:i: 
 
THE DARKEST HOUR. 
 
 27 
 
 " If you please, sir, beggin' your pardon, is Mr 
 Thimberley to home?" 
 
 "Well, I'm Mr Makepeace, you know, and it's 
 generally I that am wanted," said the lawyer, with 
 a twinkle in his eye. 
 
 " Mr Thimberley, sir, I've known for many years," 
 said the little man pathetically. 
 
 " You can see him, of course," replied Mr Make- 
 peace, and as he touched the bell sharply at his 
 side he gnawed his thumb a little harder. These 
 old men had roused his curiosity. 
 
 " Clients for Mr Thimberley as soon as he is dis- 
 e. gaged," he said to the office-boy who answered 
 the summons. 
 
 Then these three country people, the two agitated 
 old men and the child with her dark eyes fixed 
 observantly first on one and then on the other, 
 were shown into Mr Thimberley's office. 
 
 Mr Thimberley was an immense broad-shouldered 
 man, with one of those inscrutable faces which some 
 people interpreted into downright honest implac- 
 able virtue, and others into unprincipled bare- 
 faced roguery. 
 
 The little man was at home here at once. 
 
 He fell on his knees, and caught the lawyer's 
 hands between his own. 
 
 " Oh, sir ! " he said, his teeth chattering, " these 
 'ere business be mortal confident ! " 
 
 " It is safe with me," the lawyer answered. 
 
 "Safe, sir? Safe as God's sinners in hell?" 
 
28 
 
 POSTLE FARM. 
 
 I til 
 
 : ! ■ M 
 
 •' Yes, yes," the lawyer replied, a little impa- 
 tiently, and taking out his watch. 
 
 " Us wants to write it out 'ere, sir ; and there won't 
 be no 'casion for you to know the precise nature of 
 the letterin', sir ; but us'll write it, and you'll testify 
 us 'ave a-wrote it, an' sign your name to it, sir. Us 
 wants to put that on our deathbeds ; and, before God 
 Almighty, us swear to the truth o' these words — 
 that they be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing 
 but the truth ! " 
 
 The lawyer glanced again at his watch. 
 
 "You should have written it all out at home," 
 he said. " You'd better go to an inn and write it, 
 and come back again." 
 
 "For the love of heaven," said the little man, 
 " let us write it all here ! Why, one or t'other of 
 us might be struck down with death 'fore us got 
 back — or a sheet o' the paper might drop out of 
 hand — or — oh ! if you've pity in your heart, sir, 
 let us now, while God's a-rappin' at our hearts— 
 his'n and mine," pointing to Grandfer — " let us write 
 it, and do our little part for rem'dy the evil ! " 
 
 ••H'm," said Mr Thimberlcy ; "well, it's just my 
 luncheon -time, so if you look sharp about it you 
 can use this room. Here's paper and pen," and 
 he went out. 
 
 Then the two old men began slowly and labo- 
 riously making out their statement. They did it 
 whispering, so that the child, all attention, all wake- 
 ful curiosity, though she was, could gather nothing. 
 
THE DARKEST HOUR. 
 
 29 
 
 She sat where she was bidtU-n, on a liii^h stool 
 at the fartlicr end of the dinj^y httlc nM)in — an 
 important factor in the case, entirely ijjnorant that 
 the whole course of her life was beinj^ decided in 
 this musty apartment, into which she had never 
 entered before and never would again. 
 
 The clock ticked on the mantelpiece, the pen 
 scratched laboriously over the paper, sometimes 
 with long pauses, and from time to time the old 
 men's whispers murmured through the oppressive 
 air. Mr Thimberley returned. There were more 
 whisperings. And at last the little one lost interest 
 in it all, and swung her legs to and fro, and thought 
 of dinner and shops and the drive home again. 
 
 And all the while, with every scratch in the parch- 
 ment, angels were guarding her; and who is to say, 
 as the three came slowly out of the lawyer's office, 
 their work accomplished, there was not joy in 
 heaven ? Is not the eternal design, which has stood 
 from the foundation of the world, Justice? 
 
 ■ . il: 
 
 M 
 
30 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 
 When Polly came ambling into the yard three 
 hours later, Miah was there waiting. He un- 
 harnessed the mare while Grandfer went in to take 
 off his best coat. 
 
 " Bide 'ere," he said to Cathie, who was running 
 in joyfully to tell Annie all about everything. " 'Old 
 the shafties. Get up, Polly! Where did 'ee go 
 'long o' Grandfer.?" 
 
 "Us went all up Market Street, an' I seed in's 
 shop-windies. In one windy there was trumpets 
 an' fiddles, an', my! such a sight o' books, an* 
 'underds o* " 
 
 "Did Grandfer speak along o' any one.?" inter- 
 rupted Miah. " Bide a minute now, can't 'ee, gainst 
 I tak' out the packages! Did Grandfer tak' 'ee 
 anywheres .? " 
 
 "Us went into market. Oh, an' us went into 
 'torney's, and Granfer an' 'nother ol' man an' Mr 
 Thimberley did a sight o' writin'!" 
 
 "What did mun write?" asked Miah, dropping 
 one of the parcels in his eagerness. 
 
 i'UAVi..;i:._i-, 
 

 THE DARKEST HOUR. 
 
 3i 
 
 " I don't know," said the child, whirhnp; round 
 on one of her restless little feet, and taking a bite 
 out of a large juicy apple. 
 
 Miah caught her arm roughly, and the apple fell 
 rolling in the mud. 
 
 "There now!" said Cathie, '"ee've a-spoilcd my 
 apple, you ol' toad ! 'Ee was a sweet un, to ! I 
 shan't tell 'ee nothin' more, no more I won't." 
 
 She picked up the apple and regarded it rue- 
 fully. 
 
 •• That b'ain't hurtcd nothin'," said Miah. 
 
 " The pigs can 'ave it ! " she answered, throwing 
 it into the sty. " I ain't gwin for bite on muck ! " 
 
 " I'll give 'ee a penny if 'ee can mind what 'torney 
 said," said Miah, bending his beery face close to 
 her. " You'm such a clever little maid, I'm certain 
 sure 'ee'U mind it." 
 
 " I can't then, so there I Bring in the old pack- 
 ages yerself! " 
 
 She ran into the house. 
 
 " 'Tis 'er wickedness ! " said Miah. " 'Er sees 
 
 I want for know, so 'er keeps it close I I knows 
 one thing — they went to the 'torney's ; so there's 
 some'at afoot, for sure I " 
 
 He turned to the mare and kicked her in the ribs 
 because she was thirsty and drinking longer than 
 his patience could stand. 
 
 " I'll get to know the rights o't if I die for't," he 
 said, as he led the mare into the stable. 
 
 To find out ** the rights " of a thing is, however. 
 
h t' 
 
 32 
 
 POSTLE FARM. 
 
 >! 1 
 
 not easy where ignorance and dicrnified reserve are 
 
 the only two fortresses to be attacked. 
 
 Miah felt sure it was something to do with money 
 but beyond this he could not get. He was not 
 clever, only exceedingly avaricious; and though 
 avarice may accomplish much, brains accomplish 
 more. 
 
 As time passed, and nothing further transpired 
 to awaken his suspicion or interest, the circum- 
 stances that had at first done so sank into a dim 
 perspective. Yet at times he still wondered, and 
 on these occasions he revived himself with the 
 thought that Grandfer would be sure to become 
 voluble as he grew older. 
 
 Then Miah's opportunity would come. 
 
 ,!:!ll 
 
33 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A YEAR passed. Seedtime and harvest had fol- 
 lowed each other, and the early and the latter rain, 
 with the old time-worn regularity. Life at 'Postle 
 Farm, like the life on its steep ridges, followed 
 its ordinary course, with but little variation. 
 
 Only the child Cathie was taller, and something 
 of dreamland crept into her eyes ; where she had 
 once danced, she paced with slow and thoughtful 
 air; a new world was beginning to slowly open 
 for her. 
 
 One afternoon she came home from school swing- 
 ing her satchel in her hand. The melody of the 
 spring afternoon was in all her being. The west- 
 ern sun had crept low towards the opposite hill, 
 and the side of the farm towards her was in deep 
 shadow. 
 
 The rooks were .ailing from their nests high up 
 in the elm trees, and an occasional seagull wheeled 
 upward from the river. 
 
 Cathie loved the elms. Her favourite strolling 
 ground was underneath their shadows, where the 
 
 C 
 
34 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 'li.i! 
 
 lii h 
 
 I ::ii 
 
 I i 
 
 droppings from the boughs had worn away the 
 grass, and the long knotted roots had sucked up 
 the moisture, and left a dry beaten track for her 
 light footfall. Here she played — more rarely now 
 — that the great arching branches were the roof 
 of her " hall," and the hollows and the worn places 
 where the rabbits ran — and the gnarled roots — form- 
 ing themselves into squares and triangles — were 
 her "rooms." Odd bits of crockery, ranged in 
 rows, were her china - shop ; here, where the red 
 earth dipped, and a twisted root ran in a half 
 circle, was her armchair. She and Bessie had 
 named them all ; or rather, she had named them, 
 and Bessie had acquiesced. 
 
 On this spring afternoon Cathie came sauntering 
 slowly forward in her white pinafore and her kitty- 
 bonnet. She was in no hurry to enter the farm- 
 house, having had her tea with Bessie Mollard 
 on her way home from school. So she hung up 
 her satchel on a low-reaching arm of St Matthew, 
 and amused herself rearranging her china - shop. 
 But she soon got tired of thii. Taking off her 
 sun-bonnet, she tied it to the satchel, and sauntered 
 down the hill to the river. The tide was out. A 
 group of seagulls stood motionless on the purple 
 sand, looking from a distance like a patch of last 
 winter's snow. The child sat down on the bank 
 and watched them. Presently they rose in slow 
 flight, and she rose too and began searching foi 
 birds' nests along the lower hedges. 
 
M' 
 
 THE DARKEST HOUR. 
 
 35 
 
 .si- 
 
 J 
 
 And presently the tide began to crec p up ; and 
 where the salt water met the fresh, it eddied into 
 whirlpools. This resistance over, a great volume of 
 water came like a marching regiment of soldiers, 
 bearing all before it. The water swirled and 
 whirled, and licked the sandbanks till they crum- 
 bled into little pieces and fell with splashes in the 
 tide. And the child stood and watched, and let 
 the water swirl to her feet, jumping back with a 
 little scream of laughter, and putting in pieces of 
 stick, and clapping her hands when the tide whirled 
 them away. 
 
 A young man from the opposite side called out, 
 " Take care ! Take care of the current ! " but she 
 took no heed. Presently, with the incoming tide 
 came a drifting mist. It crept up the valley till 
 it reached the child ; and she held up her little 
 face to it, and it lay in a myriad beads upon her 
 checks and in tears upon her eyes. It and the 
 wind together caught her soft hair and curved it 
 into tendrils that clung about her brow. She looked 
 like a spirit of the driving mist as she opened her 
 clear-cut lips like a scarlet goblet and showed her 
 ivory teeth and laughed, as she shut her eyes to 
 keep the rain out. But when she opened her eyes, 
 they were such beautiful human eyes that she did 
 not look like a spirit at all, but a happy child. 
 
 The shadows of evening fell upon the lonely 
 hillside, and Cathie turned slowly homewards. The 
 rain beat so fast now that she walked quickly. 
 
 1 I 
 

 3« 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 Half-way up the hill she paused, and, tossing the 
 wet hair from her eyes, looked down on the brim- 
 ming river. As she looked, her eyes dilated ; she 
 bent forward with a little cry. So wide open and 
 fixed was her gaze, that a night-owl skimming by 
 her did not cause it to flicker for an instant. She 
 stood transfixed, as one seeing much, but terrified 
 to see more. 
 
 11'! i' 
 
 In the farm kitchen they had taken heir seats 
 at the supper-table, when the door burst open and 
 Cathie rushed in. Her face was pale, her eyes 
 were wide open, her wet hair clung to her face. 
 
 Annie started to her feet, her hand pressed to 
 her heart. 
 
 " Why, chil', how you skeered me ! " she faltered. 
 
 Cathie took no notice. She ran to her grand- 
 father and hid her face upon his shoulder. 
 
 " Theer now, my little me - aid ! " he said, ten- 
 derly stroking the wet curls and wondering what 
 ailed her. 
 
 With her arms still clinging round his neck, she 
 raised her face. 
 
 " Grandfer," she whispered, " Grandfer, I zeed — 
 I zeed — /ter/" 
 
 At these words each one of her listeners paled. 
 
 " The little devil, wi' they blarmed eyes o' hern, 
 always means some'at on lucky ! " growled Miah at 
 last. 
 
 He looked savagely at the child. 
 
^ 
 
 1 
 
 THE DARKEST HOUR. 
 
 3; 
 
 " Go 'long \vi' yer ol' rummage ! " said Grandfer 
 angrily. "'Tis the mist the chil' zeed. That's 
 what 'twas, right 'nough. T' won't 'arm my little 
 beauty," he said, kissing her. 
 
 "It makks me feared," she whimpered. 
 
 " I'd mak' 'ee feared for a better cause if I 'ad 
 the rcarin' of 'ee ! " Miah said beneath his breath, 
 as he rose abruptly from the table. 
 
 "You be qui't," said the child, waking up from 
 her terror and speaking like a little spitfire. 
 "Grandfer, tell'n for 'old his tongue." 
 
 Grandfer laughed delightedly. 
 
 "Bless the chil'," he said, "'er's comin' to 'erself! 
 'Ere, give 'er some'at vor eat — 'er's clemmed wi' 
 hunger." 
 
 Annie cut a thick slice from the loaf, and as 
 she placed it before her she bent over, saying in 
 an undertone, while her despairing eyes searched 
 the little sunny face, " 'Ee didn't zee it vor zure, 
 Cathie?" 
 
 And Cathie answered, "'Tis so warm an' snug 
 Hii' quietsome 'ere, 'appen I didn't. Grandfer, shall 
 I ask 'ee a riddle > " 
 
 " No, no, ma-deear. 'Ee've mos' skeered the life 
 out o' your aunt. Come 'long to bade, an' don't 
 put 'ee mind to voolishness." 
 
38 
 
 tii> 
 
 
 m ii'^i; 
 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 When Cathie woke the next morning she romped 
 i bed as usual with her aunt's little golden-haired 
 boy, till his mother came up to dress him. Cathie 
 had often begged to be allowed to do this, but the 
 mother's love for the child was so great she could 
 not bear any one to share in the trouble of him. 
 She was pleased for Cathie to play with him ; but 
 to care for him, to bathe and dress him, to hush 
 him when he cried, was her part : and in this she 
 would brook no rival. 
 
 As Cathie washed and dressed herself in the 
 room that seemed so quiet now Willie was gone, 
 she grew thoughtful. She always took a consider- 
 able time dressing, and Willie was asleep in his 
 crib, and her aunt frying bacon for breakfast, by 
 the time she came downstairs. 
 
 She looked so fresh and dainty with her soft 
 glossy hair tied back, and in her clean frilled pina- 
 fore ! Many a heart in rich childless homes might 
 well have ached to claim her. 
 
 She came slowly forward and began to hang about 
 
THE DAKKESr HOUR. 
 
 39 
 
 her aunt, till twice Annie almost tripped over her, 
 and finally nearly ran into her with a boiling kettle. 
 
 " Do 'ee mind 'eeself ! " she cried, silent and patient 
 though she usually was, stung suddenly into sharp 
 speech in spite of herself. "What bey doin' of? 
 You'm right under my feet ever since 'ee corned 
 down, an' I just upon come for upset this 'ere boil- 
 hot kettle o' watter over 'ee. Why can't 'ee go 
 'long > " 
 
 Cathie moved back ; but presently she was 
 edging back to her aunt's side again. Annie, 
 turning suddenly with the frying-pan in her hand, 
 only just saved herself from burning the child by 
 a sudden movement which sent some of the hissing 
 fat over on to the clean flagging. 
 
 *"Pon my soul, Cathie, I'll skat 'ee in a minute! 
 I will, for sure ! Go 'long an' sit down on thiccy 
 chair till I tell 'ee to move." 
 
 "I've got some'at for say to 'ee, Aunt Annie," 
 said Cathie, looking at her aunt with a troubled 
 expression. " I feel that bad about Willie." 
 
 "Willie!" said the mother, with a quick glance 
 towards the cradle. "What's wrong wi' un?" 
 
 She put down the frying-pan and bent over the 
 cradle. 
 
 " He's right now," said Cathie ; " but — oh, auntie ! 
 —I zeed Ihe Shinin' Lady, an' Miah saith whenever 
 I zee *er it be onlucky ! " 
 
 Annie shoved her off with her elbow and shud- 
 (.icred. 
 
 ' i| 
 
40 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 
 " Crazy maid you be," she said. " Mak' haste an* 
 sit down to your breaksus ; you'll be late for school 
 else!" 
 
 Cathie appeared only half satisfied. She threw 
 off her fear with an effort, and sat down to breakfast. 
 When her breakfast was over, she went to put on 
 her kitty -bonnet and to unhang her satchel from 
 the hook behind the door. She seemed to have 
 quite recovered her spirits, until she found both 
 her bonnet and her satchel missing. Then she 
 remembered she had left them hanging on the 
 arm of the first Apostle. With this recollection 
 came back the memory of her walk in the dusk 
 and the rain. 
 
 " I'll bide home 'long o' Willie," she said, suddenly 
 turning to Annie ; then, catching sight of Willie 
 awakening from his sleep, she ran to the cradle, 
 and brown curls and yellow curls got all mixed 
 up together, and the baby screamed and gurgled 
 with delight, and held on to Cathie's hair so tight 
 that she could not get away. And Annie's face 
 relaxed, and she smiled down on them. 
 
 But presently she urged Cathie again to fetch 
 her bonnet and her satchel and to start for school. 
 
 "I've a-got vor put my bootses on," said the 
 child, and she drew a little stool to the fire and 
 sat down on it. 
 
 She was always given to sudden day-dreaming, 
 and as she sat in her stockinged feet and began 
 to loosen the laces in her boots, her eye fell on 
 
 
THE DARKEST HOUR. 
 
 4» 
 
 the dancing flames, and she dropped the boot on 
 her lap, and sat staring into the fire. 
 
 It attracted her aunt's attention. 
 
 "What be gawkin' at.'" she asked. 
 
 But the child did not hear. 
 
 Annie looked at her a moment and shuddered. 
 Then, coming quietly to the fire, she turned the 
 top log, bottom side up, murmuring, "The Lord 
 be wi' us!" 
 
 "Oh, auntie! 'ee've a-spoiled my pictur'!" cried 
 Cathie. 
 
 At the same moment a piece of coal popped out 
 on to the middle of the flagging. 
 
 " There's a coflin ! " cried Cathie, moving back 
 quickly. 
 
 " What do 'ee gawk 'm's vire vor ? " said Annie 
 testily. Then she sat down, for the strength had 
 gone out of her. 
 
 Cathie did not observe her aunt's agitation. 
 She laced her boots and sprang to her feet. 
 
 " Don't let Willie out, auntie, 'vore I come back, 
 an' I'll tak' un out vor gather lent-roses — shall I, 
 Willie? Wull 'ee come 'long Cathie?" 
 
 She bent down and put her arms round him, as 
 he stood beating a tattoo against the door with his 
 fat little fists. 
 
 He stretched out his arms to her as she sprang 
 over the board placed at the door to keep him in. 
 
 " Not now ! " cried Cathie. " When I come back 
 along!" 
 
 h 
 
42 
 
 'POSTLK FARM. 
 
 The child cried after her, and Annie, vexed, 
 called to the laughing child — 
 
 "What do 'ee go zaying that vor? What's chil' 
 un'erstan' 'bout 'ee comin' back?" 
 
 "Mind what I tell 'ee — don't let'n out 'vore I 
 come back! 'E'll be ever so pleased then!" 
 
 But the child still cried after her, and she ran 
 back and kissed him. 
 
 " When Cathie comes back ! " she said, and she 
 drew from her pocket her own rosy apple and gave 
 it to him. 
 
 I' M 
 
 ,w»am-Mmm n iN»'ii>i W> i )i !I M i 
 
43 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 It was four o'clock in the afternoon. The lonjr 
 shadows of the elms fell across the farmyard. A 
 brooding stillness hung over the place. The clock- 
 ticked in the corner of the kitchen. The cocks and 
 hens were away on the hillside foraging. There 
 was no life anywhere round the house. 
 
 Then faintly from the distance came the sound 
 of a pickaxe falling dully in moist soil. Annie 
 was up in the little garden at the back tilling 
 potatoes. She came in after a while, carrying in 
 one hand a basket smelling freshly of new-turned 
 c irth, while she led her toddling boy with the other. 
 They entered the silent house together. 
 
 " Up-a-daisy ! " said Annie, as the little fat legs 
 struggled to mount the steps ; and the silent house 
 echoed with his baby laughter. 
 
 She put the board up before the door. She could 
 not quite forget Cathie's words, though she affected 
 to despise them. She took off her baby's hat, 
 but he roguishly put it on again. He loved the 
 sunshine. 
 
I' 
 
 44 
 
 'POSTLK FARM. 
 
 Annie glanced at the clock. It was later than 
 she expected to find it. The bread had yet to be 
 baked. She lifted the heavy pan of dough on to 
 the table, and turning it out, began to knead it. 
 Willie came to her and wanted to be taken up, but 
 her hands were over flour, and she could only stoop 
 for a hurried moment and kiss him. 
 
 Presently she ran out to fetch more wood. There 
 was a large log that had fallen close to the steps, 
 but it was too heavy for her to lift. She tried, then 
 stood upright and pressed her hand to her side. 
 
 Slipping the board out of the groove that held 
 it, she dragged the log over the steps an- cross 
 the floor. Her husband and her father wo^.-. aoon 
 be in now, and she wanted the baking quickly done. 
 She put the log on the fire and took down the 
 bellows. 
 
 Meanwhile Willie, playing near the door, per- 
 ceived his opportunity. He accomplished the steps 
 in safety, and with a little gurgle of delight started 
 off on a voyage of discovery. 
 
 The mother blew the fire within. The sound of 
 the crackling wood and the breathing of the bellows 
 filled the silence. 
 
 It was when she rose and had hung up the bellows, 
 and spread 0!it the cloth for tea, that the silence fell 
 upon her sense like the knell of a funeral bell. 
 
 " Willie ! " she cried. " Where's my Willie ? » 
 
 Then her eye fell on the board less doorway. 
 
 She was not alarmed, she told herself. What did 
 
THE DAKKKSI" IloUk. 
 
 45 
 
 Cathie's old truck matter? She walked across the 
 yard and looked down the hill over the close- 
 cropped grass towards the brimming river. In 
 spite of herself she gave a sigh of relief. He was 
 nowhere in sight, and if he had been on his way to 
 the river, it would have been impossible for him to 
 be out of sight yet. She turned back into the yard 
 with a light heart. 
 
 "Willie! Willie!" she called. 
 
 He was nowhere in sight. She looked into the 
 shippon, and behind the cart-shed, and down by the 
 pig-sties. Then her breath began to come painfully 
 and her knees to tremble. She had forgotten the 
 pond. She ran to it. Round the extremest edges 
 the water still trembled in a broad circle. She 
 told herself it was the wind. She peered into its 
 depths, crying " Willie, Willie ! " 
 
 The rumbling of wheels came over the steep hill- 
 side. She ran towards the sound. Grandfer and 
 Miah were returning with the carts. 
 
 " I've a-los' Willie ! " she cried in a husky whisper. 
 
 The noise of the carts prevented their hearing, 
 but her white-scared face made even Miah pull up 
 his horse. 
 
 " Pshaw ! " he said when he heard her words. 
 " Come up, Polly ! " and he cracked his whip and 
 went on. But Grandfer got down from the butt 
 and left his horse standing. 
 
 " Los' mun ? " he asked. 
 
 "Ees, I'velos'un!" 
 
 '% 
 
i! • 
 
 
 i ii 
 
 ■ ■• ' ' s 
 : I, 
 
 fi 
 
 .\.m 
 
 46 
 
 'rOSTLE FARM. 
 
 " He's sleepin' zumwheer." 
 
 " No ; he 'an't been gone ten minutes, an' 'e'd slep' 
 in the vorenoon ! " 
 
 Then they both looked towards the pond. 
 
 " He's een 'bouts," said Grandfer. 
 
 And they both looked together, but they could 
 not find him. 
 
 " He's sleepin' zumwheer," said Grandfer ; and 
 again they both looked towards the pond. 
 
 He was sleeping somewhere : his bed was soft ; 
 his rest was sweet. 
 
 Then Grandfer bethought him of the footprints. 
 He traced them from the steps straight across the 
 yard. Then they lost them for a bit. But they 
 found them once again, close beside the water's 
 edge. The water had swilled half into one. 
 
 Trembling like a leaf, Grandfer called to Miah. 
 He came slouching across the yard to the pond. 
 Annie was clinging to the limb of a tree to keep 
 herself from falling. 
 
 Near the bank a rosy apple floated. Grandfer 
 pointed to it, but nobody spoke. They began with 
 rakes and poles to drag the pond. For a long time 
 only rotten twigs and decayed leaves came up. 
 
 Annie was now like a thing demented. She tore 
 down her hair and threw off her apron, screaming — 
 
 " You may drag ! you may drag ! He bain't 
 there, I tell 'ee ! he bain't there!" 
 
 Something resisted the pressure of Grandfer's 
 rake. The old man turned an ashen white as 
 
THE DARKEST HOUR. 
 
 47 
 
 slowly through the muddy water came the hand 
 of a little child. 
 
 The mother did not wait. She plunged in above 
 her waist, and caught the wet clothes, and pulled the 
 child towards her. Then grasping him in her arms 
 she sped with him to the house, and throwing her- 
 self into a chair before the fire, she chafed the little 
 dripping limbs. Again and again she kissed the 
 poor little blanched lips and pressed the curly head 
 against her breast. 
 
 Grandfer wanted to draw off the wet clothes, but 
 Annie only murmured — 
 
 " No, no ; us can't stay ! us can't stay ! " 
 
 When the doctor came he was angry. 
 
 "You should have wrapped the child in warm 
 blankets at once ! " he said. 
 
 *' Go 'long ! " she answered. " Do 'ee s'pose a 
 mother can't fend for 'er own as 'as drawn the 
 nourishment from her breust an' been closer to 'er 
 nor any other?" 
 
 Even the doctor's authority could scarcely persuade 
 her to leave her hold of the child. She clung to it 
 as they dragged it from her and laid it on the table. 
 
 " How long since you found it ? " 
 
 The door pushed open and Cathie entered. She 
 was coming in hurriedly. Her lips were parted, her 
 eyes strained. 
 
 The moment her glance fell on the little form 
 lying out straight and still, she screamed, then 
 stood a moment staring at the sight. One little 
 
 ^l! 
 
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 '!"lt 
 
 i ifi!!'^ 
 
 : 11 
 
 I, 
 
 48 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 dimpled hand hung over the edge of the table, 
 and five clear diamonds, God's own jewels, hung 
 one on each finger-tip, and then fell one by one 
 like fast-dropping tears. 
 
 Cathie's face became possessed with fury. She 
 ran at the distraught mother. 
 
 "What did I tell 'ee?" she «creamed. "Didn't 
 I tell 'ee to keep un in 'vore I come back?" She 
 shook her fiercely as she spoke. 
 
 The woman's eyes were riveted on the still coun- 
 tenance of her dead baby ; she did not heed. 
 
 The doctor had drawn off the clothes now. He 
 wrapped a blanket round, and began to try and 
 induce the burdened lungs to act. He had no 
 hope, but for the mother's sake he did it. 
 
 At length he put his ear to the heart for the last 
 time. There was no motion. Then h r't his hand 
 kindly on the poor thing's shoulder. 
 
 " You must try and make up your mind to bear 
 it," he said. 
 
 She looked at him in a dazed way. Already it 
 seemed to her years and yeari* and years since she 
 had missed her child from her side and called to 
 him "Willie! Willie!" 
 
 "The child i- quite drowned," the doctor said. 
 " He is dead." 
 
 She raised dull, uncomprehending eyes. Then 
 they wandered from the doctor to Cathie, and in 
 an instant her whole face became disfigured with 
 fury. 
 
 «i 
 
 Yo^ 
 Go 
 
 selfl 
 
 Th( 
 
 fen( 
 
THE DARKEST HOUR. 
 
 49 
 
 " You done it ! " she shrieked. " You she-devil ! 
 You gawked in's vire! You cast avil eye on un! 
 Go to damnation with yer tricks!" 
 
 Before any one could check her, she hurled her- 
 self on Cathie and flung her madly backwards. 
 The child fell heavily on the sharp edge of the 
 fender and lay still. 
 
 " Take the woman ! " said the doctor. " Take 
 her away from the room, or she will do more mis- 
 chief. She has done enough here already, God 
 knows!" And he stooped over the livid face of 
 poor little Cathie. 
 
 ill 
 
 
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 m% 
 
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 iiii!;!!: 
 
 
 $C 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 For a fortnight Cathie remained unconscious. Then 
 slowly the light filtered back. She spoke rationally, 
 ate and slept, rose from her bed, and performed the 
 ordinary duties of the day ; but her mind was a 
 blank. She could recall nothing of her little cousin, 
 nor of what she had learnt at school. She could 
 remember no one's name ; she met old familiar 
 friends as strangers. 
 
 " What be *ee a-called ? " she inquired of her 
 aunt. When told who she was she replied — 
 
 " Ah ! but you'm startin' 'vore long on a long, 
 long journey — an' 'ee won't come back nether ! " 
 
 Grand fer heard her, and brushed the tears from 
 his eyes. It was Sunday evening, and he had sat 
 down in the window-sill to have a quiet pipe. " I 
 mind," he said presently, with a view to diverting 
 himself and others — " I mind, when I was a young 
 man, when a lad died mun always 'ad zix young 
 women vor be bearers toy'n. Likewise, when 'twas 
 a young 'oman mun 'ad zix young men — lads like 
 — vor car'n ; an' they always took the corpse 'long 
 
 
THE DARKEST HOUR. 
 
 51 
 
 the lych roo-ads toy grave. I mind zo well as 
 can be, theer was a young man as died suddcnt- 
 like — Johnny Morrison I minJ 'e was a -called; 
 an' us 'ad young women to car'n across the church- 
 yard, an' my sister Ann, 'er was one o' mun. Well, 
 thecr was a mortal 'igh wind a-blowin', an' as 'er 
 come 'vore 'er los' 'er 'at — whizzled away, 'e did — 
 one wi' veathers in un 'er'd a-bought a parpose, 
 an' 'e went through a puddle, an' never weren't fit 
 for nought arter ! I mind it zo well as can be. 
 But the strangestest part is vor come. Long 
 whiles after, 'ees brother in' another young chap 
 was out newsin' late o' nights, an' they bided nigh 
 the church ge-ate Vore mun zaid good -night — as 
 young men will — vor one 'ad to go westward an' 
 t'other zouth. An' as they bided theer one o' mun 
 zced a big black dog a-comin' 'vore, an e zaid, 
 ' Zee me 'eave stone to thiccy black dog I * an' 
 t'other caught un by 's arm an' zaid, * Thiccy ain't 
 no dog ! ' An' 'e stop kind o' skeert, an' theer 
 was a coffin a-comin' along zo large as life, wi'out 
 no bearers, but jus' movin' 'long zame as eef theer 
 was! An' through the ge-ate 'e went — ge-ate 
 openin' an' shuttin' vor'n silent - like. An' they 
 tinned 'vore, the both o' mun, an' theer wasn't 
 nought theer — only, jus' as they come back, a 
 mc-aid's 'at kind o' whizzled past. Then they thought 
 on Johnny Morrison, an' 'air o' mun stood on's end. 
 An' they'd teli 'ee the truth o't over an' over, an* 
 CLkld'n nether one of 'en, abide to be out le-ate 
 
 V nr !"'•' 'rr 
 
 I 
 
 *•{ 
 
Ill 
 
 52 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 'gin the churchyard ge-ate arter ! Ah ! I've yert 
 tell o' strange zights ! strange zights, zure 'nough ! " 
 
 "An' I've zeed mun!" cried Cathie. 
 
 " Never mind what 'ee've zeed ! 'Old yer tongue ! " 
 said Annie sharply. 
 
 The child turned wounded eyes, like the eyes of 
 an animal, on her aunt, and was silent. Just then 
 the sheep-dog rose growling, and a moment later 
 a stranger knocked at the door. The little drowned 
 boy had now been buried six weeks, but the words 
 for the tombstone had not yet been decided on. 
 Grandfer had told the poet of the neighbourhood, 
 the village grocer's assistant, to call at 'Postle Farm 
 on this particular Sunday evening, in order to ar- 
 range a suitable verse for the tombstone. 
 
 He entered now, looking important and conse- 
 quential. 
 
 " Us wants zome'at becomin' vor piit on's *ead- 
 stone," said Grandfer. " Us knows as 'ow you mad' 
 zome zeemly lines when ol' Beer to Stretchaway 
 Varm geeve over, an' us thought maybe you might 
 a-manage zome'at zeemly vor us, dunnee zee?" 
 
 "Certainly," said the young man, taking out a 
 pencil and paper from his pocket, and beginning 
 to flourish the pencil in imaginary curves over the 
 blank sheet, while he stretched his arms out so 
 as to show his white linen cuffs to advantage. 
 "Certainly." 
 
 " Dunnee mak' it too long," said Miah ; " letterin' 
 comes expens/ve." 
 
 I ■ 
 
1 
 
 THE DARKEST HOUR. 
 
 S3 
 
 " No, no ! Oh, dear me, no ! We'll make it a 
 suitable length," said the young man. " Let mc 
 see. What were the details? Child aged twenty- 
 one months — drowned where? River, I suppose?" 
 
 " Een's pond," said Grandfer. " Oh, 'twas a cruel 
 dathe vor zuch a bonny viewer ! " 
 
 He brushed his coat - sleeve over his eyes and 
 looked across at his daughter. The poor stricken 
 thing sat rocking herself to and fro. Oh for the 
 balm of tears ! But the frozen well held them 
 ivrht. 
 
 The young man's eyes followed the direction 4 
 Grandfer's. He smoothed the paper out once 
 more, and with another flourish of the pencil 
 began : — 
 
 " Weep no more, thou mother fond " 
 
 " But 'er ain't weepin' ! " objected Miah. 
 
 " Hasn't 'er wept at all ? " inquired the poet, 
 suspending his pencil. 
 
 " Not a tear ! not a tear ! " said the old man, burst- 
 ing into tears himself. 
 
 The poet looked disconcerted ; but, recovering, 
 he licked the point of his pencil and started writ- 
 ing, saying comfortably — 
 
 " Ah, but 'er will weep ! Leastways, 'er did ought 
 to. Fond o' the child, I s'pose ? " 
 
 "Fond o't!" cried Grandfer, rising from his chair. 
 "Fond o't! My God! my God! Vond o* it, did 
 'ee zay ? Poor critter ' Lord 'a mercy on 'er, my 
 
 
 
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 ' 
 
 il! 
 
 h 
 
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 I'l 
 
 is 
 
 I 
 
 |i ''iil/l 
 
 I III 
 III 'I 
 
 $4 
 
 'POSTLR FARM. 
 
 poor little Annie, as was a chil' 'cisclf not zo many 
 year agone ! " 
 
 " Weep no more, thou mother fond," 
 
 reptated the young man, sucking the end of his 
 pencil, 
 
 " For this thy babe drowned in the pond. 
 She 
 
 Boy or girl ? " 
 
 "Boy; beautiful goldcn-'aired pictur' of a little 
 angel!" said Grandfer. "Ah, Loord, Loord, 'twas 
 won'erful cruel of 'ee!" 
 
 "He soon will wait thee in realms above, 
 Where all is light and peace and love ! 
 
 There ! What do you think of that ? " 
 
 Grandfer scratched his head. " It don't zcem 
 vor give it zomeways," he said slowly. " Zeems 
 as ef 't wasn't my bonny boy some ways ! " 
 
 "H'm," said the poet, discouraged. "Well," he 
 said, after a moment, " p'raps I'd best ways take it 
 home an' think over't a bit." 
 
 He got up, and brushed some whitewash off his 
 sleeve, and raked his side curls upwards before 
 replacing his hat. 
 
 " I'll look in through the week," he said. " After- 
 noon." 
 
 Cathie rose from the corner where she had been 
 cowering near the fire. She followed the young 
 man out. 
 
 I 
 
T 
 
 THE DARKEST HOUR. 
 
 J 
 
 55 
 "Tak' 
 
 " I can tell *ee zome'at to zay ! " she said 
 out pencil an' write." 
 
 The young man stared at her, and chucked her 
 under the chin. 
 
 " My dear," he said, " I've just failed myself. 
 What should you know about epitorphs ? " 
 
 "Write!" said Cathie, gripping him by the arm. 
 " Write ! " 
 
 To please her he took out his pencil ; but pres- 
 ently, as the words flowed smoothly off her tongue, 
 he exclaimed — 
 
 "My word!" And when it was finished, "Is 
 that all ? " 
 
 Cathie nodded her head. 
 
 "Well, look here," said the young man, produc- 
 ing a threepenny - bit ; " don't say as how you 
 done it — see ? — and you shall have this here ! " 
 
 Cathie took the threepence, and the young man 
 re-entered the house. 
 
 "See," he said, "when I got out it all came to 
 me plain as a pikestaff, and I'll read it to 'ee. 
 
 **In the cold pond my limbs were chilled, 
 My blood with deadly horror thrilled, 
 My feeble pulse forgot to play, 
 I fainted twice, then died away. 
 All means were tried my life to save, 
 But could not keep me ^rom the grave ! " 
 
 "That'll do vine ! " said Grandfer, while the mother 
 said hoarsely, " Read un again ! " 
 Then as the young man ceased she cried, " 'E 
 
 III 
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 I 
 
 56 
 
 POSTLE FARM. 
 
 knows US tried vor sav'n ; 'e knows I 'eld un to 
 my bosom, an' loved un, an' gave un all the life 
 I could!" and burst into tears. 
 
 Grandfer, with the tears streaming down his own 
 withered cheeks, knelt beside her chair and drew 
 her head upon his breast; while Miah, going up 
 close to the young man's ear, asked— 
 
 "Won't so much letterin' come expens/ve?' 
 
 
 ''ill- 
 
 
 !'■ Hi. 
 
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 to 
 life 
 
 wn 
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 up 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 On Saturday night Miah stayed late at "The 
 Swan" drinking his hard-earned money away in 
 cheap whisky. Annie placed a light in the kitchen 
 window and came up to bed. 
 
 After a while she came into Cathie's room. 
 
 " I can't bide over there ! " she said ; "I be so 
 lonesome wi'out my little lamb ! " 
 
 "Come along in 'ere wi' me, then," said Cathie, 
 throwing back the bedclothes. 
 
 She could not remember the little lost lamb her 
 aunt spoke of, but her heart told her her aunt was 
 sad and lonely, and she welcomed the poor thing 
 to her warm bed. Her own heart beat for a little 
 with a suffocating feeling, for always, until now, the 
 poor stricken mother had avoided her. Every one 
 had said cruel things of her that were not true. 
 They had said she cast an evil eye on the baby 
 and it had been drowned. What baby ? She knew 
 no baby but Mrs Mollard's, and that baby was 
 living still. But now perhaps the tide was going to 
 turn, and people were going to welcome her back. 
 
 i 
 
 M 
 
 <n 
 
58 
 
 'roSTI.E KARM. 
 
 and praise her, and call her pretty names. This 
 was the atmosphere she had been accustomed to, 
 and the cold climate of suspicion and hatred 
 poisoned her being and threatened to change her 
 sunny temperament. 
 
 She cried softly as she lay beside her aunt, but 
 she hid her tears. 
 
 She was sleeping when Miah's heavy step came 
 up the stair. His wife had, however, wakened at the 
 first sound of his approach. She had heard the dull 
 footfall coming down the steep hillside behind, and 
 the click of his iron-toed boot against the stones. 
 One stone caused him to stumble. Jt rolled away 
 and hit the gate-post with a dull thud. Then the 
 gate opened and fell back with a chng ; the door 
 downstai'/s was closed noisily, and the heavy step 
 came up the stau. The door of the opposite room 
 opened and shut. 
 
 It was then that Annie woke the child. 
 
 " He's gone in I " she said. " Mebbe he won't miss 
 of me!" 
 
 She laid her hand on Cathie's arm. The hand 
 trembled. 
 
 " What be feared on ? " asked the child. 
 
 " I b'ain't feared on nothm'. " 
 
 At that moment the door opposite reopened, and 
 in an angry voice Miah Sluman thundered out — 
 
 " Annie, wheer be 'ee to ? " 
 
 " Oh, he's angered ! " cried Annie ; and the bed 
 began to shake under her. 
 
 < 
 
 l\ 
 
m 
 
 ,nd 
 
 )ed 
 
 THE DARKEST IK^UR. 
 
 59 
 
 "What'll us do?" cried Cathie. " Us'll hide." 
 
 Just then the door burst open. Miah stood 
 holding a rushlight and glaring into the room. 
 
 " Be 'ere ? " he growled. 
 
 *"Ees; I was just a-comin','' said Annie, rising, 
 white as her nightgown. 
 
 He glared savagely at her, strode heavily and 
 unsteadily across the room, and set down the rush- 
 light on the mantelshelf. 
 
 '* I'll teach 'ee to come ! " he said. 
 
 The woman, white and scared, moved towards the 
 door. 
 
 " I'm gwin," she said ; " I'm theer avore 'ee." 
 
 But he stepped in front of her. Then she 
 screamed, and flung herself on her knees before 
 him. 
 
 " For the love o' God, don't be' ard on me, Miah ! " 
 
 At that moment Cathie, who had been sitting up 
 in bed, her eyes wide open, her lips set firm, flew 
 with a sudden movement to the mantelshelf and 
 knocked over the rushlight. 
 
 " Now, where be 'er ? " she cried triumphantly, and 
 dragging Annie to her feet, she pulled her through 
 the door before the man could recover his dazed 
 senses sufficiently to prevent her. 
 
 "Come," said Cathie when they were in the 
 passage. "Come quickly 'long o' Grandfer." Annie, 
 surprised at the child's sudden return to her former 
 quickness, followed her. 
 
 Grandfer was lying with his good ear on the 
 
 I ill 
 
!1 
 ii 
 
 . ii 
 
 .i!l;li: 
 
 i : ;ii 
 
 ! 
 
 60 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 pillow and had heard nothing. The sound of his 
 regular breathing caused Annie to burst into a 
 passion of thankful tears. All her life long her 
 father had been to her a haven of refuge. 
 
 Miab, cursing and swearing, stumbled down the 
 passage in search of them. He had given himself 
 a black eye groping for matches, and the pain 
 had somewhat sobered him. Instead of searching 
 further for Annie, he groped his way into his own 
 room. They heard the bed creak as he flung 
 himself heavily on it. 
 
 Then, with their teeth chattering with cold and 
 fright, they crept back to Cathie's room. 
 
 The child slept, but the woman lay awake till 
 dawn. With the first twitter of the birds, the 
 first grey waking to a world of grief, she slipped 
 noiselessly out of bed and crept like a guilty thing 
 into her husband's. He stirred uneasily and flung 
 a heavy hand across her face. The pain made 
 her wince ; but at least the blow was unintentional. 
 She crept nearer to the edge of the bed, and lay, 
 with unseeing eyes, staring at the gradual glimmer- 
 ing of the dawn through the square window-panes, 
 and hearing with dull ears the first twittering of 
 awakening birds. 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
6i 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 One Saturday night, about two months later, Miah 
 came home drunk. 
 
 He staggered upstairs, and seeing his wife asleep, 
 in a fit of drunken malevolence he threw the con- 
 tents of the washhand basin over the miserable 
 woman. Drenched to the skin, she dared not move 
 till her lord and master lay sleeping soundly. 
 
 Then she got up, shivering with the cold, and 
 with tired numb fingers put on a dry night-gown, 
 and slept as best she might on the draughty 
 floor. It was the beginning of the chill October 
 weather, and Annie was of a weakly constitution 
 and melancholy disposition. The tragic loss of 
 her baby had proved almost the last straw on 
 shoulders already heavily weighted ; and now the 
 wet, the exposure, and the grief proved too much. 
 She woke next morning in a burning fever. When 
 she tried to get up she fell and cut her face against 
 the leg of the bed. 
 
 Miah found her there when he turned lazily 
 oul of bed two hours later. She was soaked in 
 
 ! i 
 
■ ! ! 
 
 63 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 I ; i '■ 
 
 iiii 
 
 ''I' 
 
 blood and in a dead faint. At first he thought 
 he had been violent to her in the night, and feared 
 he had killed her. It was the fear of the con- 
 sequence on himself that caused him hastily to 
 slip on his clothes and run for Grandfer. 
 
 Between them they lifted her on to the bed 
 and tried to restore consciousness ; but failing to 
 do so, Grandfer started hurriedly for the doctor. 
 
 After a while the blue -veined lids opened 
 wearily, and Miah, In a spasm of thankfulness, 
 cried— 
 
 " I didn't mean ter 'urt 'ee, Annie, my dear I Zay 
 'e felled, will 'ee ? " 
 
 " 'Twasn't 'ee done it," she answered faintly. " I 
 come vor get up, an* couldn't stan' — I fell " 
 
 *' Bah ! you crazy idjut ! " said the man, getting 
 off his knees and slouching to the door ; " you 
 mos' drove the senses out o' me ! 'Ere '11 be a 
 doctor's bill an' all to pay. 'Tis some'at mad- 
 denin' wi' women ; they be always into some'at. 
 Clumsy-footed to-ad, 'ee be ! " 
 
 All the doctors in the world cannot save a broken 
 heart. The healing balm lies in one hand only. 
 Though Annie struggled through the first violence 
 of her attack, she could do no more. She faded 
 with the year, and the first fall of winter snow 
 fell upon her new-made grave. 
 
 1; 
 
63 
 
 
 I 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 . 
 
 / 
 
 Catherine at the age of twelve entered upon the 
 duties of a woman. 
 
 Kindly neighbours stepped in, but the child 
 scowled them away. Her past was a blank ; old 
 friends were strangers to her. 
 
 After her recovery she had gone to school for 
 a short time, but the children called her " Crazy 
 Cathie" and flung stones at her. And though 
 she fought them like a tigress she gave it up 
 after a while, an shrank from strange faces and 
 rude tongues. 
 
 And the neighbours said, " 'Er bey stre-ange, zure 
 'nough ! The chil'ern 'oily to 'er, ' Crazy Cathie ! ' 
 An' that's what 'er be, zure an' zertain, I b'lieve. 
 I b'lieve 'er's got avil eye right 'nough. Poor 
 Annie, 'er always would 'ave it 'er 'ad ; an' I b'lieve 
 'er 'ad the rights o't ! " 
 
 Then Mrs Mollard, who was timid, chimed in 
 with — 
 
 " Zee 'ow 'er looked to me as I come 'vore ; an' 
 
 1 1 
 
i k^' 
 1,1'' I 
 
 
 ! .llffljJ 
 
 64 
 
 'POSTLR FARM. 
 
 when I got back to *ome, zure 'nough the peg took 
 ill an' died. I knowed 'e would ! " 
 
 " Theer now ! " exclaimed the others, amazed at 
 such conclusive evidence. " Look to thiccy ! 'Er be 
 bewitched ; 'er 'ath avil eye, zure 'nough. Better 
 ways leave the me-aid, 'vore us zeeth end o't!" 
 
 So they left her, and she grew up a child of 
 nature. 
 
 The rich luxuriance of her beauty as she reached 
 maturity was great. Had it not been for the belief 
 that she possessed the evil eye, as well as that she 
 was crazy, the humble dwelling would have been 
 thronged with suitors. 
 
 As it was, they left her for the most part un- 
 molested. 
 
 And she sauntered in the fields, and the warm 
 sun shone upon her, and the rich earth yielded 
 its beauty to her : the wind from heaven wooed 
 her, and Nature opened her warm strong arms 
 and took the girl to her heart, and nourished 
 her. 
 
 So she entered on her seventeenth birthday ; 
 and though her face was scowling to the work- 
 aday world, down within her, her heart was 
 warm ; and though her brain was stunted beneath 
 the mass of ignorance that covered it, it struggled 
 — often passionately, always persistently — for ex- 
 pression; and sometimes it found it. 
 
 
 / 
 
 ^ 
 
I 
 
 BOOK II. 
 
 WHEN THE DAY BREAKS 
 
 
I Hi 
 
 n 
 
 ';,ri 
 
 iH 
 
 1 H \ -i 
 
 
 'IP 
 
 I I 
 
 I i 
 
 i. I 
 
 , t 
 
 
T 
 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 When he looked from the window he saw it dis- 
 tinctly ; but when he started out to find it, he lost it. 
 
 First it amused him ; then it puzzled him ; then it 
 gave him an uncanny feeling, and he did not like it. 
 
 He looked at it from the east windows of the 
 room he occupied. First, in the days of his con- 
 valescence, he had looked at it with unseeing eyes, 
 yet with a certain sense of rest, as one turns from 
 the glare of the sun to a shady place. But gradu- 
 ally, as he gained in strength, he had begun to 
 weave over it a queer romance. It excited his in- 
 terest. He wanted to see it closer. He wanted to 
 be transported there and then across the river, with- 
 out the trouble of movement that had become such 
 a weariness to him. Finally, it became an incentive 
 to health. 
 
 There was only a leaky boat to row himself across 
 the broad silent river in ; then a quarter of a mile's 
 ascent over the bare grassy hill flecked with white 
 daisies, to the line of elm trees standing half-way 
 up. There stood those cold bare walls, with ne'er a 
 
 ■ih 
 
 • f r 
 
j 
 
 jilli 
 
 
 
 i ' i 
 
 1 , 
 
 1 i ; 
 
 M; hi 
 
 ''' ! ' 1 
 
 \ i 
 
 1 ■ i 
 
 1 :■' 1 
 
 i 
 
 |i 
 
 lii^l ;: 
 
 6S 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 ja 
 
 window in them — the sloping roof, the patched 
 chimney — that strange, cold, dreamy, weird old 
 farm. 
 
 But he dared not use the boat, for the current was 
 strong. He had to take the road for a couple of 
 miles, and cross by the bridge, and folic ,• the wind- 
 ing lane that led eventually to the back of the ridge 
 where the old farm stood. 
 
 He did this twice, and each time he failed to find 
 the farm. Then he began to question. Was the farm 
 really there, or did he only fancy it was ? Was it 
 an aberration of intellect after his recent fever ? 
 
 When the servant came into his room one even- 
 ing he asked him — 
 
 " Do you see that old grey building ? " 
 
 " Where, sir .? " 
 
 "There — straight across the water — half-way up 
 the hill — the sunlight has caught a pane of glass in 
 the window — do you see.? It burns like fire. I 
 declare, that is the first time I ever knew it had a 
 window ! Do you see it ? Speak, man, quick ! Do 
 you see it .? " 
 
 " Yessir — certainly, sir — yessir." 
 
 " That's all right, then," said Temple, heaving a 
 deep sigh of relief and turning from the window. He 
 had had queer fancies during his illness, and they 
 had left his nerves unstrung. 
 
 " Mighty strange contrydictorianess ! " the man 
 remarked, as he repeated the conversation in the 
 
 ^ 
 
 al 
 
il 
 
 
 WHEN THE DAY HRF.AKS. 
 
 «9 
 
 pantry below. " He'll be all so strange as the old 
 man 'for' he's done. In the blood, don't 'ee see ? — 
 bound to come out, though he be only distant rela- 
 tioned. He ain't so bad like the governor nether, 
 though not so good-lookin' accord in' to." 
 
 " Well, I've a-yert tell 'e ain't relationed to un at 
 all," replied the other man. 
 
 The entrance of the butler prevented any reply. 
 He glanced with angry suspicion from one man to 
 the other. 
 
 " What be doin' of? " he inquired. 
 
 "Just tellin'." 
 
 "Yes, * jus* tellin" ! 'Atchin' vile valsehoods an' 
 speakin' evil o* digna-tories — that's what you be 
 after ! If it warn't for the dignity o' the 'ouse, I'd 
 do wi'out nether one of 'ee ! " 
 
 The men were silent ; only, they made faces be- 
 hind the butler's back as they returned to their 
 work with a vast show of industry. 
 
 In the great silent library the master of the house 
 stood in solitude. The remnants of a singularly 
 handsome physique were still left to him. He was 
 standing before the fire, with his hands in his pockets 
 and his legs astride, as he used to stand in the merry 
 days of his youth. Only, then his head had been 
 thrown back as he swept the room with his brilliant 
 eyes. Now, his head hung heavily forward, the chin 
 resting on the sunken chest. This was the pathetic 
 difiference. Every now and then he rolled his fine 
 eyes round the room with a sudden look of appre- 
 
 Ki 
 
1 
 
 ll 1 ^ 
 
 
 
 
 ; ' >■ 
 
 
 ! 
 
 { .111 1 
 
 
 .1111 'P'|! 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
 
 
 I il 
 
 I 
 
 ,* 
 
 70 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 hension. Saving for this, he remained motionless, 
 excepting when his shrunken legs lost their firm- 
 ness and he shifted his pointed feet with a spas- 
 modic movement to preserve his balance. 
 
 Oh ! the pathos of extreme old age, that will not 
 own itself vanquished ! 
 
 Upstairs the young man strode to and fro. His 
 figure, scarcely above average height, was lithe and 
 graceful. Passably good - looking, he fell very far 
 short of the magnificent old man wearing out the 
 evening below him, in sullen solitude. Yet he was 
 more lovable. One ^ id to trust him ; and one 
 knew, if he failej one, it would not be for lack 
 of steadfast desire, but because circumstances had 
 proved too strong for him and broken him down 
 as well as you. 
 
 " Now I am well, I hate this life ! " he burst out. 
 And he turned to the window and drew aside the 
 heavy curtain. 
 
 The moon was at the full, and fell in a broad 
 stream of silver across the silent river. In the park 
 the deer were feeding : their antlered horns looked 
 weird and ghostly as they moved them up and down 
 in their eager browsing. 
 
 One little light burnt steadily in the place where 
 
 the old farm stood. He looked at it, till it seemed 
 
 like a hand beckoning him, or a will-o'-the-wisp, 
 
 which, do what he would, he must follow. 
 
 He turned impatiently from the window and 
 paced the room again. 
 
 ., .pi 
 
WHEN THE DAY 15REAKS. 
 
 71 
 
 
 " I am nothinjT here ! " he said — " nothing but a 
 l)iil)pet on strings, pulled this way and that to the 
 whim of an olJ miser. I must go, or I shall rust — 
 just like an old tin kettle with the bottom kicked 
 out. But supposing he objects and I lose m)' 
 money? Ah, there's the rub ! The poor old chap 
 shuns me, after all, and I daresay will be as glad 
 to be rid of me as I to be rid of him. At any 
 rate, get off for the present I must. But before I 
 go I'll find that old farm, or perish in the effort." 
 So saying, he turned once more to the window. 
 
 Clouds had gathered above and on all sides, but 
 just where the moon rode the sky was clear. She 
 looked like a ship in full sail, becalmed upon a 
 placid ocean, and the dark and broken clouds 
 seemed like rocks and treacherous quicksands. 
 
 The sense that something was expected of him, 
 that something was coming break the even 
 
 tenor of his life, was borne in upon him as he 
 gazed. It filled him with a vague uneasiness : and 
 it was late that night before he slept. 
 
 \\ 
 
 )i 
 
^ 
 
 
 72 
 
 III 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Leaninc, over the low stone wall, with her magni- 
 ficent tawny locks gathered into an untidy knot, 
 and her brilliant hazel eyes glaring from under her 
 straight brows, was crazy Catherine. The splendid 
 development of her figure and the inherent dignity 
 of her pose seemed to point to a riper age than 
 seventeen. Yet seventeen summers only had it 
 taken to mould her ripe beauty, to place her a 
 queen amongst her kind. 
 
 She drew her shapely arms from the stone wall 
 and stretched herself to her full height, raising her 
 eyes to heaven as though searching an answer in 
 its inscrutable depths to the myriad questions that 
 formed within her. 
 
 At that moment the lowering defiance which had 
 disfigured her face left it. She was for that one 
 supreme instant transcendently beautiful. The 
 next moment her eyes dropped from heaven to 
 earth. They met the eager eyes of a man who 
 was on the point of scrambling over the stone wall 
 to greet her. In an instant her face was tranc- 
 
 he 
 
WIIKN THE DAY MUEAKS. 
 
 73 
 
 I 
 
 formed. She glared at him, and the man, discotiv 
 fited, fell back. 
 
 " Bepj pardon, Cathie," he said, humbly. " Seein' 
 as 'ow you was here all 'lone like, I thought 
 inebbe " 
 
 The words died away on his lips, and he turned 
 slowly and went back the way he had come. 
 
 The girl's lowering glance followed him. When 
 he had disappeared she laughed scornfully. 
 
 "Men be proper fools!" she said. "S'pose I'd 
 wanted he.' Well, he didn't s'pose I'd say *Comc'! 
 lint: there, 'tain't he I want. What is't I want?" 
 
 She stretched out her hands, burnt brown with 
 the sun, but beautiful hands for all that. 
 
 " What is't I want } " she repeated slowly, and the 
 pupils in the beautiful eyes widened as the thought 
 tried to shape itself in her brain. " I want — I 
 
 want " She looker' ^11 round her, at the bare 
 
 expanse of hill b 'forr, At i-he sandy bed of the river 
 beneath, and b'»ycnd it. embowered in trees, the 
 chimneys, and here and laere a window, of the old 
 Hall. She looked at these all in turn, and then 
 back to the low stone wall, with the red poppies 
 growing in spare pieces of barren soil here and 
 there, their roots wedged in between the piled 
 stones. 
 
 And she suddenly burst into tears and kissed 
 the poppies. 
 
 "I wonder if every maid loves *em as I love 'em," 
 she said, — "loves everythin* what's out an' about — 
 
m 
 
 #1 
 
 ! i i 
 
 >H t 
 
 74 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 the very bullocks, an' the cows, an' all the sheep, an' 
 what can't fend for theirsels — an' hates the men folk, 
 what worry the life out o' mun ! 'Tis turble wicked ! 
 I be crazy, I b'lieve, like mun says I be. Livin' be 
 cruel difficult One minute 'tis all beautiful, an' the 
 ncxtest 'tis dark an' wicked, an' I could kill them 
 as is downtreadin' them as is weaker nor theirsels. 
 An' what's the good o't all? Why, jus' nothin', 
 nothin', nothin* all through ! " 
 
 She dashed the tears from her wet lashes, and 
 hastily picking a bunch of the poppies, she ran back 
 along the hillside, crushing the yellow-eyed daisies 
 under her nimble feet. The sheep-dog came 
 bounding to meet her as she neared the yard 
 gate. The cows were already standing round, for 
 it was past their milking-time. She did not stay 
 to drive them into the shippon, but entering the 
 weather-beaten old house with its frowning front, 
 she fetched a milk-pail from the dairy and began 
 operations on the peaceful-eyed creatures, as they 
 stood chewing their cuds, in the irregularly paved 
 yard. 
 
 The rhythm of the milk falling in a soft shower 
 into the empty pail was the only sound now in the 
 quiet homestead. 
 
 She went to work steadily till the last cow was 
 milked ; then she threw open the yard gate, and 
 the dog barked at the cows' patient heels, and 
 soon the last one had filtered out, and the yard 
 was empty. 
 
 as 
 
I 'I 
 
 WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 
 
 75 
 
 And again she leaned on the rail and fell into 
 a reverie. 
 
 Presently the clinking chains and heavy hoofs of 
 the farm -horses came faintly down the lane. At 
 the pond, covered with duckweed and shadowed by 
 the flowering elderberry, they paused to drink. 
 
 The girl watched them idly ; then, as if suddenly 
 recollecting, she picked up the brimming pails of 
 milk, and passed with her burden into the house. 
 
 " Ees, that be it ! that be it ! " cried a voice at the 
 doorway. " Zame as usual ! Nothin' ready, nothin' 
 thought on ! Never a sip o' tea or a bite 'ave I 'ad 
 sinth midday ! That don't trouble 'ee, 'ee good-for- 
 nothin' crazy crettur ! " 
 
 It was Miah who spoke. Coarser and larger and 
 redder than before, he stood threateningly over 
 the girl. 
 
 "You think Grandfer ain't 'ere, so 'ee can speak 
 as 'ee've a mind to ! But 'ee can't ! " she answered. 
 "'Ee can speak so far as 'ee've a-spoke a'ready, 
 but 'ee can't speak no farder ! Tend the pigs, an' 
 when the meal's a-served I'll tell 'ee ! " 
 
 She indicated the door with an imperious move- 
 ment of the head. The man's skin took a deeper 
 red. He seemed about to speak, or even to strike ; 
 but when he met her bold unflinching gaze, he only 
 muttered a low curse, and went out to do as she 
 had bidden him. He had hardly gone out when 
 Grandfer came in — poor, infirm old man — and tot- 
 tered-to into a chair noat the door. 
 

 'V.''i 
 
 ii'l ll 
 
 76 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 "Dish o' tay?" the girl asked, glancing at him 
 over her shoulder. 
 
 The old man shook his head. He was so tired 
 he could have cried. But the girl went on with 
 her work and took no notice. 
 
 When the meal was ready she went to the door- 
 step and calltd to Miah ; then she turned and took 
 the limp tired hands that lay with such touching 
 weariness on the old man's knees, and held them 
 firmly in her own. He seemed to gather strength, 
 while she perceptibly paled. 
 
 " Now 'ee can tak' a sip o' tay," she said ; and 
 the old man looked up, with the grateful moisture 
 in his eye, and answered with alacrity — 
 
 "Ay, I can zo! I can zo! Ees, fey I can! I've 
 a-worked ! My ! 'tes amazin' the work I can put 
 een, an' me voour-score — eh, Miah.^" 
 
 Miah laughed coarsely, and the light faded from 
 the old man's eye. 
 
 A dangerous darkness gathered in the eye of the 
 girl, and the man who had laughed shifted uneasily 
 in his chair. 
 
 It was a sorry household for the girl to fend for 
 — the rough coarse man, the frail old Grandfer, the 
 youthful carter who gaped at her beauty. To her 
 dawni *j womanhood the world seemed a dark and 
 cruel place. Since her aunt's death there had been 
 no one to teach the poor child the womanly acts 
 of a woman. The floor of the dwelling-room re- 
 
 n 
 
 
WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 
 
 77 
 
 mained stained with mud and grease from one 
 week's end to another. Only the plates and crocks 
 and dishes were spotless. In her person scrupu- 
 lously clean, she was yet sadly untidy : there would 
 be holes in her stockings, for she knew not how to 
 darn ; .rents in her faded gown, for she knew not 
 how to sew. The neck of her bodice would often 
 be unfastened, leaving the white pillar of her throat 
 bare to the sun and the rain. Yet her magnificent 
 beauty surmounted it all : she was a queen, and the 
 worst of men dared not touch her. 
 
 
 v 
 
 I 
 
78 
 
 m 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 
 i|| 
 
 1 1; 
 
 i ; 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
 f \ 
 
 When Temple rose on the morning after hi'i de- 
 cision to leave Upcott Hall, the sun had risen 
 long before him. It shone in all its yellow strength 
 full on the old farmhouse across the river. But it 
 could not warm the cold grey walls, nor seem to 
 put a breath of life about it. The place remained 
 silent and motionless as the tomb. 
 
 He commenced breakfast alone, as was his cus- 
 tom — the master preferring to take his meals at 
 irregular intervals. 
 
 One servant removed the dish -covers, a second 
 handed him hot rolls, a third poured him out 
 coffee ; then they all three solemnly withdrew, and 
 Temple ejaculated, " Praise heaven ! " 
 
 These trappings of wealth oppressed him. 
 
 When the butler returned to give him moie coffee. 
 Temple inquired — 
 
 "When will Lord Frobisher be down, do you 
 think ? " 
 
 " Not before two o'clock, sir." 
 
 " H'm ! I was thinking of leaving by (He 2.30 
 
J 
 
 II 
 
 WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 
 
 79 
 
 express. That drives it rather close. You might 
 mention it to him." 
 
 The old man left the room, and returned with 
 the message that his master wished the departure 
 deferred till the next day. 
 
 Temple was annoyed, but did not evince it. 
 
 " His lordship's not the thing to-day, sir," con- 
 tinued the old butler. " His night's rest was 
 rumplesome. He will take his meals alone to- 
 day ; but after dinner he would like to see you, if 
 you please, sir, in the library." 
 
 "All right," said Temple. 
 
 " Pray heaven," he continued to himself as the 
 man withdrew, " that this means I get off to- 
 morrow ! Six mortal weeks have I been here, and 
 four of them spent on a cursed sofa staring at 
 that old God - forsaken place over yonder, till it 
 has burnt itself into my brain." 
 
 He sauntered through the window and down the 
 velvet-turfed lawn, and, throwing himself under the 
 shade of a spreading cedar, read away the idle 
 hours of the morning. 
 
 Luncheon over, the lassitude that had still clung 
 to him after his fever suddenly left him. 
 
 "A walk's the thing for me !" he cried. "Noth- 
 ing like exercise for a man who has been filled 
 with doctor's nostrums for four weeks ! " and, 
 whistling to the big retriever which lay guard- 
 ing its master's dominions, he started off across 
 the park. 
 
8o 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 *,!> 
 
 i :| 
 
 mi 
 
 'ill 
 
 Turning to the right, he followed the river for 
 the best part of seven miles, by which time it 
 had narrowed to a fresh -water stream, which he 
 crossed. 
 
 Presently he came to a deep pool in a sequestered 
 nook, and slipping off his clothes, he enjoyed a lazy 
 swim among the reeds and water-rats. After that 
 he continued his way refreshed, but passing a small 
 inn he dropped in for a cup of tea. This the land- 
 lady supplied to him in a little garden arbour, 
 together with cut -rounds, Devonshire cream, and 
 home-made jam, for all of which he paid the modest 
 sum of sixpence. 
 
 After the tea he lit his pipe, and lingered over 
 it till the sun was beginning to make long, declin- 
 ing shadows. 
 
 Then he proceeded on his homeward way. It 
 lay at the back of the hills that bordered the river. 
 After pursuing it for several miles, it occurred to 
 him that unless he left the main road and found a 
 way for himself across the hills, he should be taken 
 a good many miles out of his course. 
 
 So he turned from the road and began mounting 
 the grassy hills, scrambling through hedges and 
 vaulting gates, till at last he stood on the summit 
 of the ridge. 
 
 He had timed his ascent well ; for there, 
 opposite to him, embowered in woods, were the 
 grey chimneys of the Hall ; and just beneath him, 
 with its line of gnarled elm-trees, was — yes, the old 
 
 fat 
 
 "t(| 
 
 roi 
 cit^ 
 in 
 em 
 
 he 
 
i 
 
 i 
 
 WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 
 
 8i 
 
 farmhouse he had tried on three other occasions 
 "to strike." 
 
 He felt like a man in a dream as he chose the 
 rough, stony path that led to it. A vague ex- 
 citement, which he knew to be ridiculous, stirred 
 in his veins as he pushed open the gate and 
 entered the yard. 
 
 It was empty and deserted. Not even a dog 
 bounded forward to resent his intrusion. 
 
 He advanced till he stood in the centre. Then 
 he stopped, and turned slowly round, surveying 
 everything. 
 
 There was not a sound nor a movement. Yet 
 his eyes were irresistibly drawn in one direction — 
 the direction of the shippon. Here at last, through 
 a square hole, made in the wall in order that the 
 dung may be cast out through it, his eyes fell upon 
 the face he was destined never to forget. Its mag- 
 nificent, scowling beauty repulsed him — yet he had 
 to look. ' 
 
 He could think of nothing to say. How long 
 he remained meeting the dark glance of the bril- 
 liant eyes he never knew. Then she disappeared, 
 but only for an instant. She reappeared at the 
 door, towering in her full beauty and haughtily 
 regarding him. 
 
 "What be doin' of.?" she asked. 
 
 Before he knew it, he had raised his hat — raised 
 his hat to rags.? raised his hat to beauty? To 
 neither. He had raided it to the woman. 
 
 F 
 
 • 
 
11 
 
 'II i ') 
 
 82 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 " I be^ your pardon," he said. " I am a stranger 
 here. Can you tell me if I can reach the Hall 
 this way?" 
 
 " How should I know ? " she answered, with 
 sudden passion. " What do I know, savin' when 
 the light peeps 'tis day, an' when the moon shines 
 'tis night ^ 'Tis all dark here — dark ! " She 
 swept her hand with a tragic despair twice across 
 her brow. Then, recovering herself, she answered, 
 "You'd bes' ways go. I can't tell 'ee nothin'." 
 
 He did not want to go. 
 
 "Can you tell me the name of the farm?" he 
 asked. 
 
 " Ees. ' Postle Varm * — that's what they calls 
 mun." 
 
 " Can I get to the river from here ? " 
 
 "Zome days," she answered. 
 
 " Some days ? " he queried. " Why not all 
 days ? " 
 
 She smiled, but did not reply. Temple, meeting 
 her eyes, smiled too. Since she had grown out of 
 childhood, Cathie could not remember looking into 
 any one's eyes and smiling, and it affected her. She 
 put her hand against her heart and turned away. 
 ' She came back presently. Temple was still there. 
 
 " B'ain't 'ee gwin .? " she asked. 
 
 " Presently," he answered. " Tell me, what did 
 you mean by saying it was all dark here } " He 
 touched his forehead as he spoke. 
 
 She knitted her brows, and tried to think. 
 
 f 
 
WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 
 
 Thinking, she walked across the yard, and leaned 
 against the gate in her favourite attitude. Casting 
 her eyes in dreamy forgctfulness over the sloping 
 hill, the troubled look left her face. She had 
 apparently forgotten query and querist. 
 
 Temple watched her, and something almost of 
 awe came over him at the exceeding beauty of the 
 picture. 
 
 Suddenly she raised herself, and stretching out 
 both her hands, she cried — 
 
 " Oh, I want for know all about everythin' ! 
 Thiccy, an* thiccy, an' thiccy ! " nodding her head in 
 various directions. "An' what be that up there 
 above us," sweeping her hand to indicate the 
 blue canopy that overspread them. " It's a-seemed 
 to speak a time or two. Sometimes 'tis angered — 
 sometimes 'tis soft — sometimes 'tis nought but ol' 
 rummage what saith nothing. What be it? That's 
 what I want for know. An' where do the sun go 
 when he rinneth hinder the hills ? An' what's the 
 wind ? Where do 'e come from ? Where do 'e go ? 
 What be they all.? What's everythin'? Who's 
 God ? Where be us gwin to when us dies ? Does 
 us stay in the red earth, with the rain an' the rum- 
 mage up over us ? Be that the end o' us ? Oh, 
 ain't there any one along all this hillside as can 
 tell me the meanin' o' life an' these 'ere strivings 
 an' pinin's wi'in me?" 
 
 Temple was taken aback. Pity, which is so dan- 
 gerously akin to love, beat at his heart. 
 
f 
 
 :\ '• 
 
 1 
 
 84 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 *' Poor girl ! " he said. " Listen- 
 
 But she blazed upon him a fire of anger from her 
 splendid eyes. 
 
 " Poor ! " she cried, with a scorn that made him 
 feel as if he had suddenly shrunk to half his size. 
 •' Poor I be, be I ? Go ! You'm like the rest o' 'em, 
 made so small 'ee can't see nobody what's a bit 
 differ'nt to 'eeself but they'm ' poor crazed critturs' ! 
 What did 'ee come 'ere for ? Go 'long with 'ee ! I 
 could mak' use o' a lot o' ugly names, but I won't. 
 If it warn't for Miah, I might. But I ain't a-gwin 
 for do nothin' Miah doth ! You go 'long ! " 
 
 She pointed to the river flowing peacefully at the 
 base of the hills. 
 
 "I am very sorry "he said humbly. "I — you 
 quite misunderstood. I " 
 
 She interrupted him with an exclamation of im- 
 patience, and pointed once more to the river. 
 
 He hesitated only for an instant. Then, like the 
 coarse rough men with whom she was thrown, he 
 obeyed, and left her. 
 
 I 
 
 |ir,pi.i:i; 
 
I 
 
 <s 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 Lord Frobisher stood in his library in his 
 favourite attitude on the hearthrug. His heir had 
 just withdrawn, having received commandment to 
 remain at the Hall another fortnight. 
 
 The old man waited till he heard the chandelier 
 jingle, and knew that Temple had gone to his own 
 apartments, and there was no fear of his returning 
 without first sending a servant to know if he would 
 be willing to see him. 
 
 He tottered to his great easy-chair and sank into 
 it. Seeing him thus, with every nerve and muscle 
 relaxed, it was impossible to believe he had stood 
 for half an hour conversing without show of weak- 
 ness or fatigue. 
 
 The tension over, he now lay back in his chair 
 exhausted ; and busily his mind ranged over the 
 past. 
 
 He saw himself as Haswell Frobisher, young and 
 dashing. The favourite of his uncle, he had not in 
 those days scrupled to live beyond his means. He 
 thought that the money would be his. 
 
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 86 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 The news of his uncle's death came to him just 
 when the hole he had made for himself became 
 a little uncomfortably tight. He and his brother 
 went together to the funeral — he somewhat patron- 
 ising the brother whom he had always in his heart 
 depised. The will was read : he was not in it, save 
 for a paltry legacy of two thousand pounds. 
 
 He could recall the shock even now — the wild 
 effort to look unconcerned. 
 
 All his life he had lived in the hope of being 
 rich. To retrieve his fortunes he married an 
 heiress, squandered her money, and abandoned 
 her. She died in poverty. 
 
 Just at this time his brother — Lord Frobisher — 
 met with a severe coaching accident which, though 
 not immediately fatal, left little hope of his ultimate 
 recovery. In the ten years since his possession of 
 his uncle's money he had remained single. Hope 
 of riches regained lured Haswell into excesses. Fate 
 had been cruel, but she was now about to retrieve 
 her good name. The money would be his yet ! 
 
 But Lord Frobisher, with one foot in the grave, 
 suddenly decided to marry. 
 
 Haswell went down to the Hall to view the 
 land. His brother had married his first and only 
 love, so soon as she had become widowed, and 
 now the joys of existence returned to him. Money 
 and possessions had been nothing to him — this 
 woman was all. 
 
 The doctors smiled, and whispered hopes of re- 
 
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 WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 
 
 87 
 
 covery. His beautiful wife nursed him with un- 
 tiring devotion. Through the soft summer days 
 they strolled in the park together, talking of the 
 past that had separated them, and the wonderful 
 present that had brought them together. 
 
 And Haswell Frobisher looked on and gnashed 
 his teeth. Even if his brother did not recover, 
 there were now — or would be shortly — two lives 
 between him and the property. 
 
 Then he set himself to think. 
 
 In the early spring a child was born. Within 
 a fortnight the mother died of svcarlet fever, the 
 origin of wl'ich was sought for in vain. 
 
 From that moment the widower's health failed 
 rapidly. His interest in life was gone. Tlie infant 
 was only a painful reminder to him of his former 
 happiness. The old physical troubles, that dur- 
 ing the eighteen months of his marriage he had 
 successfully combated, returned with redoubled 
 force. After lingering a year in much pain and 
 inexpressible anguish of mind, he died. 
 
 Haswell was summoned, and arrived on the day 
 of the funeral. This time he had no hopeful antici- 
 pations when the household assembled for the read- 
 ing of the will — a coldness, that had no apparent 
 cause, having sprung up between him and his 
 brother since the latter's widowhood. 
 
 The will was read. 
 
 Half his late brother's large fortune was left to 
 him, and the remaining half he was to hold in 
 
 
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88 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
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 trust for the child ; the whole to revert to him in 
 the event of the child's death. 
 
 He remembered his start of petrified astonish- 
 ment ; then the pallor creeping to his face, and 
 seeming to creep into his veins and into his very 
 bones, to remain there chilling him while life 
 lasted. 
 
 He recalled the features of the beautiful child 
 as it played heedlessly with its nurse while the 
 will was being read ; his immediate determina- 
 tion to send it abroad ; the subsequent news of 
 its death, in which the whole county had joined 
 in regret. His breathing became laboured as his 
 mind dwelt upon these scenes now — across the 
 long crooked vista of years. 
 
 Suddenly he tottered to his feet, and clenching 
 one hand and shaking it towards heaven, while 
 with the other he clung for support to the chair, 
 he hissed out — 
 
 " Curse my money ! curse my money ! All the 
 devils in hell are in that money I Curse itl curse 
 it!" 
 
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 89 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 
 It was one of those damp Devon days, when the 
 atmosphere is too heavy to dispel the moisture, 
 and it hangs over hill and valley like a shroud. 
 
 Temple, looking out on it all, wished himself 
 well out of the county. As he stood discon- 
 tentedly watching the river and the shrouded hill 
 beyond, his eye was attracted by a female figure 
 on the opposite bank. It passed to and fro, with 
 its head bent as if in search of something. 
 
 " Supposing," thought Temple suddenly, " I rode 
 into Upcott and hired a boat for the remainder 
 of my time here ? At least it would be some- 
 thing to do! I could row myself back. Yes; I'll 
 do it!" 
 
 Consulting his watch, he found there was hardly 
 time to fetch the boat before lunch. Besides, the 
 tide was out. He must ride in after lunch. 
 
 At luncheon-time, happening to glance casually 
 out of the window, he saw the same solitary figure 
 still keeping up its dreary wandering up and 
 down the river-bank. 
 
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 90 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 His curiosity was awakened. He would fetch 
 the boat and row to the opposite bank, ind find 
 out what she was doing. 
 
 Accordingly he rode into Upcott. chose one. 
 and rowed back. As he nearcd the bend of the 
 river which would bring him in sight of the old 
 grey farm, he got quite consumed with curiosity 
 to know if the same dreary female figure would 
 be wandering to and fro, stooping to the ground, 
 and wholly absorbed in some mysterious business 
 along the edge of the river. 
 
 He was so near the wooded point now, that 
 a couple of strong strokes brought the old farm 
 full in view. 
 
 He paused and looked. 
 
 " Still there ! " he exclaimed ; and he rowed up 
 close along the edge, and when he was within 
 hailing distance he took the oars from the water 
 and paused. 
 
 The figure was walking slowly tov/ards him, but 
 with head bent so low, he could not distinguish 
 the features. She came almost alongside of him 
 at last, and he called — 
 
 " May I ask what you are looking for .' Ah ! I 
 thought as much ! " he added to himself, as at the 
 sound of his voice the features of the girl he had 
 met at the farm on the previous evening were 
 revealed to him. 
 
 "Have you lost anything?" he inquired. 
 
 She shook her head. He brought the boat up 
 
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WHEN THE DAY JJKEAKS. 
 
 91 
 
 close to the bank and threw out the anchor. 
 Then, getting out, he walked towards her. She 
 was once more busy pacing to and fro, with her 
 eyes on the ground. N(jw and again she stoopeii 
 and turned the wet grass aside with her hand, 
 or moved a stone with the toe of her rough boot. 
 
 " You must have lost something, surely ! " he 
 said. "What is it.?" 
 
 " Nothin*," she answered, without looking up. 
 
 "What are you doing?" he asked. 
 
 "Just lookin'!'" 
 
 "Looking for what?" 
 
 "I dunno." 
 
 "Don't know what you are looking for!" he 
 exclaimed. 
 
 " No," she answered, stopping in her search sud- 
 denly and looking at him. "Be that strange?" 
 
 " It struck me rather so at first," he answered. 
 
 Then he turned slowly towards the boat. What 
 he could only suppose to be her clouded intellect, 
 together with her great beauty, struck him as one 
 of the most pathetic things he had ever known. 
 
 " Be gwin ? " she inquired. 
 
 " I was thinking of it," he answered. 
 
 She looked at him wistfully. 
 
 " Tell me some'at, " she said. 
 
 " What shall I tell you ? " 
 
 "Just any thin', so long as 'tis what I aren't knowed 
 afore." 
 
 lie looked at a loss how to satisfy her. 
 
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92 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 
 " I know a lady," he said at last, " who would 
 know exactly what to say to you ; but unfortunately 
 she isn't here. She always says the right thing and 
 does the right thing." 
 
 " My sakes I " exclaimed Cathie, " us never does 
 up there," jerking her head in the direction of the 
 farm. 
 " Never say and do the right thing?" 
 " No, never. I know us don't ! " 
 A troubled look settled on her face. She brushed 
 her brow with that impatient helpless gesture that 
 had stirred his pity so powerfully on the previous 
 evening. 
 
 " Would you like to see a photo of this lady who 
 always does and says the right thing ? " 
 Her lip curled, and she shook her head. 
 " Poor soul ! " she said, turning away, " her must 
 be mortal uninterestin'." 
 
 Temple did not hear. He was taking reverently 
 from his breast coat-pocket a photograph, which he 
 now held out to Cathie to look at. 
 
 She put out her hand to take it, but he drew the 
 photo back a little way, involuntarily. Cathie saw it. 
 " I won't look nether ! " she cried angrily. " What 
 be feared on ? " 
 
 " I beg your pardon," he answered, placing the 
 
 photo in her hand. " I only thought " 
 
 An exclamation from Cathie prevented his finish- 
 ing the sentence. 
 
 " My ! ain't 'er finf.> ! Look to the jewels on 'er ! 
 
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 VVIILN THE DAY IJUEAKS. 
 
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 93 
 
 an* the lace • an' the air of 'er 'cad all towered up 
 like ! Dear sakes ! be that what womenfolks look 
 like over where you be?" 
 
 " More or less," he answered, adding, with a lover's 
 partiality, " But not quite so nice as that ! " 
 
 *' Looks, an' saith, an' doth mos' ways what 'er 
 should ! Well, 'ee can say what 'ce like, but there 
 be a mortal sameness in it." 
 
 And without looking at him again she recom- 
 menced her search in the grey grass of the salt 
 marsh. 
 
 Temple, who had been half disposed to be angry, 
 laughed instead. 
 
 " There's anything but a sameness in her to me," 
 he answered, as he turned with a quick stride to the 
 boat. 
 
 " Say ! look 'ee 'ere ! " she called ; " if 'ee come 
 to-morrow, I'll a-show 'ee some'at ! " 
 
 He nodded good - naturedly. He had not the 
 slightest intention of going. 
 
 "Will 'ee come?" she called. 
 
 "Very likely." 
 
 "Answer up proper whether 'ee will or no, for 
 certain ! " 
 
 And Temple hesitated but an instant before he 
 answered, "I'll cornel" 
 
 .III 
 
 ill- 
 
94 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 " Loves me ! Loves me not ! Loves me: ! The 
 daisy has told me the truth!" clasping her hands 
 with a pretty glad gesture. "Why do we women 
 act so foolishly ? We run, every one of us, in books 
 and out, to the daisy to tell us if he loves us, if he 
 doesn't I And if the daisy says ' No,' we are quite 
 depressed, though we won't admit it ; and if the 
 daisy says * Yes,' we are in a transport of happiness ! 
 Why were we women made so foolish? Imagine a 
 man doing it ! " 
 
 Elsie was one of those women who still cling to 
 the old superstition that man is a superior animal. 
 
 Nobody made any answer, for there was nobody 
 there to do it. Elsie was soliloquising, as women in 
 love are apt to do. The country lay warm in the 
 sunshine ; a brooding tenderness was on the hills. 
 
 The girl, who sat in an easy -chair under the 
 shadow of a large magnolia, was not pretty in a 
 literal sense of the word. People who flattered 
 themselves they could discriminate to a nicety 
 where female beauty was concerned, called her 
 
WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 
 
 95 
 
 " pretty- looking " ; and perhaps they were not far 
 wrong. 
 
 Her dress was fresh and cool, and a subtle 
 delicacy hung about her like the perfume of a 
 flower. She was innocent and guileless. Before 
 everything else, one felt she must be shielded. In 
 these days, when no one need be shielded, this gave 
 her a very special charm, and even lent to her an 
 element of originality which her character was far 
 from possessing. 
 
 Men who had passed the first passion of their 
 youth, and given all the ardour of their manhood 
 to what was worthless, sought her company, and 
 looked with dispassionate interest for the first signs 
 of awakening love. But with that odd little crank 
 in woman's nature that upsets all our most arduous 
 calculations, instead of being humbly grateful, and 
 accepting the first eligible offer, Elsie proved most 
 difficult to please. Love did not awaken with that 
 spontaneity the man-world had thought probable. 
 
 Major Clavers came out of the house and walked 
 towards his daughter. Elsie, who was enjoying her 
 reverie, was a little sorry to see him, but with a 
 woman's hypocrisy she laid her hand on the chair 
 next her own, saying — 
 
 "Sit down here, daddy." 
 
 Major Clavers was not an energetic man, and it 
 took him some time to reach his daughter's side. 
 Wlien he got near enough to answer her without 
 raising his voice, he said — 
 
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96 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
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 " All right, my dear, I will," and seated himself. 
 
 In his face there was no determination. The 
 brow was a little troubled, the chin receding ; 
 kindliness looked out of his eyes; the whole was 
 redeemed from absolute weakness by a nose of 
 some position. 
 
 " Mammy back yet ? " he inquired. 
 
 But his daughter did not answer. A delicate 
 colour had sprung into her face, and her father, 
 following the direction of her eyes, saw Temple 
 coming towards them across the lawn. 
 
 Elsie rose and put out her hand to him, and as 
 he took it in a quick impulsive clasp, love was 
 no longer hidden, but stood revealed. 
 
 Yet there was no open expression between them ; 
 Temple did not avow his love. 
 
 They loved each other. For the present that was 
 joy enough for both. 
 
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97 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 It was August. The hot sun beat down on the ripe 
 grain. Men and women alike turned out into the 
 harvest - fields. The busy sound of the reaping- 
 machine came from far and near, and the shouts 
 of the men as the startled rabbits fled from the 
 field echoed through the valleys. 
 
 Cathie, with her arms bare to the elbow, bound 
 the rich sheaves with her nimble fingers. 
 
 Temple, who had returned to the Hall after ^n 
 absence of some seven or eight months, rowed 
 himself across the river, wooed there by the 
 echoing voices and the yellow waving corn — 
 burnished gold against the deep blue sky. He 
 found his way into a corn-field where one solitary 
 worker bent to bind the sheaves. She did not 
 hear him approach, for the rustle of the full ears 
 as she bound them with a deft turn of the wrist 
 and flung the sheaf behind her covered the sound 
 of his footfall. 
 
 It was Temple's shadow falling across the ears 
 she was stooping to gather that caused her to 
 
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 98 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 start slightly and raise herself. More than once 
 since that first promise had his shadow fallen on 
 her as she worked. Her eyes were on a level 
 with his, and they both looked each into the 
 other's, and neither spoke. 
 
 Then she smiled at him slowly. 
 
 It was a wonderful thing to see a smile dawn on 
 Cathie's face. " It seems as if it came from a long 
 way off — where angels are," Temple said to himself 
 afterwards ; and with that thought something quite 
 new entered into his life, and entering, stayed there. 
 
 " I thought *ee'd gone for zartain zure," she said, 
 "an' 'ee wasn't never comin' back no more." 
 
 " I did go," he said, " the day after I saw you 
 last." 
 
 "'Ave 'ee got the book o' picturs for me?" she 
 asked. 
 
 " I forgot it ! " 
 
 Her face fell. 
 
 " I will bring it over to-morrow," he said. 
 
 " Ees, bring mun over," she said eagerly. " I be 
 gwin to larn lots from they picturs : I did from 
 t'other book, 'ee know." 
 
 He was not listening particularly to her. His 
 eye was glancing over her approvingly. 
 
 " I think you're tidier than you were," he said. 
 
 She hesitated. 
 
 " I didn't do it myself," she said wistfully. 
 " Bessie Mollard, over to Stibb Varm, did it for 
 me. I show her picturs, and 'er sew'th — see ? But 
 
WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 
 
 99 
 
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 er's a-seed all the picturs in the lastest book, an' 
 er won't sew no more 'vore I show 'er 'nothtr." 
 
 " I will bring you another," he said. Then, *' What 
 are you looking at ? " 
 
 " I be lookin' to your teeth." 
 
 " W hat's the matter with them ? " 
 
 " They be so white." 
 
 "Well, that's what they should be. So are 
 yours." 
 
 "They b'ain't so white as your'n, I don't believe. 
 Grandfer's got one ol' snag a-lef, an' 'e be so yeller 
 as a crow's foot." 
 
 " That's because he never cleans it, perhaps." 
 
 " In coorse *e don't." 
 
 "Well, he should." 
 
 " 'Ow do 'ee clean mun, then ? " she asked with 
 interest. 
 
 "With a tooth-brush." 
 
 "What be that like?" 
 
 "A little brush with a long handle. I'll bring 
 you one if you like." 
 
 "For Grandfer?" 
 
 " No, for yourself." 
 
 " I should like to 'ave one — fey I should so ! " 
 
 "All right," he said. "I'll bring you that and 
 the book. I must be off now." 
 
 She nodded carelessly to him and stooped once 
 more to her work. Temple watched her stretch 
 out her shapely arms and gather the sheaf to her 
 brerst. It was a womanly task enough, after all, 
 
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 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 he thought, though five minutes before he had 
 told himself it was a sad pity she should work 
 in the fields. But she lent a tender beauty to 
 the action as she gathered the life-giving grain 
 from the lap of Mother Earth and bound it into 
 strength so that it might stand alone. She had 
 already become emblematic to him of many 
 things. 
 
 He turned away slowly. 
 
 " Zay ! " she called to him after he had gone 
 some distance; '"bout thiccy tooth-brush — don't 
 'ee bring yer own, *ee know, 'cos I shouldn' 
 fancy 'e!" 
 
 As Temple rowed home across the river, he 
 thought of this girl he had left toiling on the 
 hillside binding sheaves beneath the burning sun. 
 Her Hashes of intelligence, her perfect form and 
 features, awakened in him an intensity of pity which 
 during his absence he had striven in vain to put 
 from him. 
 
 He was no fool ; he was no profligate. He knew 
 the path he had chosen was a dangerous one. He 
 knew now, certainly, that when an idle hour came 
 to him it would find him rowing his way across 
 the river. He had resisted the temptation at first ; 
 but, like all natures a little lacking in determina- 
 tion, the first little impetus from the other side 
 sent him rolling like a stone down the hill at a 
 breakneck pace. 
 
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WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 
 
 lOI 
 
 The girl insisted. That was his excuse. She 
 wanted to learn. Why should he not teach her.' 
 
 But he was no hypocrite, not even to himself — 
 that most fatal of all forms of hypocrisy — and as 
 he stepped from the boat he said — 
 
 "If this girl were plain I should not want to 
 teach her. As she is beautiful, I do. I am aware 
 that though my visits at present give her pleasure, 
 they must in the end bring her pain. She will have 
 aspirations above her station ; and what is the use 
 of cultivating tastes that people in her own class 
 cannot appreciate? Still, the experiment is an 
 interesting one, and, as I realise the dangers, the 
 probability is I shall have the strength of mind to 
 escape them." 
 
 He strode back to the house, and loafed through 
 the day with that idleness which is so fatal to 
 an active disposition. 
 
 Of course, when he got into bed he could not 
 sleep ; and when at length he managed to doze 
 off, something woke him with a start, and he sat 
 up in bed peering into the dark recesses of the 
 room. 
 
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 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 "Cathie!" 
 
 The voice was a very timid one. It hardly rose 
 above a whisper. 
 
 " Cathie ! " 
 
 A pig that lay in the manure -heap grunted. 
 Beyond this there was no sign that a living thing 
 had heard. It was not a romantic answer to a 
 lover's tender call. 
 
 The young man, who was in the ordinary work- 
 aday clothes of a ploughboy, advanced to the 
 door and rapped on it. Then, afraid of his own 
 temerity, he backed hastily, tripped over an empty 
 bucket, startled the pig, and fell into the warm 
 pit she had with a terrified squeal vacated. 
 
 Cathie appeared at the door. 
 
 "What be doin' oH" she inquired, frowning. 
 
 " I thought mebbe, Cathie," he said humbly, as 
 he picked himself up — 'I thought mebbe, since 
 you was lone-like " 
 
 He stopped short, disconcerted at her forbidding 
 
WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 
 
 103 
 
 d. 
 
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 Ice 
 
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 face and his own condition, with tlic straws from 
 the manure-heap sticking to his coat and trousers. 
 
 " You look a beauty ! " she said. 
 
 He looked down ruefully. 
 
 " Mebbe," he said, brightening — " mebbe, 'gainst 
 I've a-claned myself " 
 
 She uttered an impatient exclamation. 
 
 " Oh, go 'long ! " she said, and walked back into 
 the kitchen. 
 
 There was something like moisture in the young 
 man's pale blue eyes as he turned slowly away. 
 He had missed another opportunity. 
 
 Cathie was busy inside the house. 
 
 A wonderful change for the bette. had come over 
 the dwelling - room. The floor Wt*s swept and 
 garnished, and a womanly neatness pervaded the 
 place. 
 
 As she hung the house flannel out and placed 
 it to dry in the sun, her nostrils dilated, and she 
 thrust out her red under-lip. 
 
 *' Bah ! 'tis mucky work ! " she exclaimed. " But 
 I b'iave I've larned it now. I'll go over this evenin' 
 an' call Bessie for see it. 'Er'U know whether it 
 be right or no." 
 
 Accordingly, when she had set the men's supper 
 ready, she ran out the back way, and hurrying over 
 the fields with her beautiful strong young step, she- 
 reached in something over twenty minutes Bessie 
 Mollard's home. 
 
 Creeping along the wall till she reached the back 
 
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 'rOSTLE FARM. 
 
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 entrance, she gave a low whistle — then waited. No 
 one came, and she presently repeated the signal. 
 She dared not go boldly forward and knock a*, the 
 door, for had Mrs MoUard seen her, she would 
 instantly have attributed every subsequent death 
 on the farm, from a chicken upwards, to Cathie's 
 presence on that particular evening. 
 
 At the repetition of the signal Bessie appeared at 
 the door, glancing round with wide open eyes, in 
 which terror distinctly found a place. She had 
 grown into a pretty Devonshire lassie, with hardly 
 sufficient character in her face to attract admirers 
 strongly. Catching sight of Cathie, she nodded 
 hurriedly and withdrew. 
 
 Activity at Stibb Farm, at this hour, was over 
 for the day. The great kitchen was spotless from 
 floor to ceiling. The dresser was filled with shining 
 china from end to end. Underneath it stood the 
 bell-metal skillet, "zo bright as a new zovereign," 
 as the farm girl said when she polished it that 
 Saturday and returned it proudly to its place. As 
 for the drop-leaf table and the chairs, you could 
 see your face in them. 
 
 Mrs Mollard was in the act of putting her 
 youngest boy Johnny to bed, and was dragging 
 him, an unwilling victim, to the tub. 
 
 Bessie came in softly, and passing rapidly across 
 the kitchen, unhung her hat from the nail behind 
 the door. 
 
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WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 
 
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 "Wheer be gwin?" inquired Mrs MoUard. 
 " Come on now, Johnny, my dear, when I tell 'ec.' 
 
 "Just out a bit, mother," said Bessie, trying to 
 speak without betraying her excitement — for com- 
 munication with Cathie was always exciting, be- 
 cause forbidden. 
 
 " Ees, d'rec'ly work be over, that's all you think 
 on," said Mrs Mollard, relinquishing Johnny on the 
 more urgent demands of the baby, who had just 
 awakened in its cradle. " Go fetch the chil' — sharp 
 now ! " she cried, as Johnny's fat legs disappeared 
 hastily in the direction of the mud pies he had been 
 making in the yard. 
 
 " I want vor go out," said Bessie, the tears coming 
 into her blue eyes. 
 
 " What's the matter wi' my little mc-atd ? " Mr 
 Mollard's big jovial form filled the doorway, and 
 Johnny, forgetting his mud pies, began to swarm up 
 his gaitered legs. 
 
 " *Er wants vor go out ! 'Er be always gaddin* 
 round!" cried Mrs Mollard indignantly. 
 
 "Me-aids will be me-aids, do what us will wi' 
 mun — eh, Bessie? Leu 'er go 'long, mother." 
 
 " Ees, 'er can go 'long while I bide an' work ! " 
 cried Mrs Mollard, querulously. 
 
 "'Er time '11 come, mother — 'er time '11 come." 
 
 "You properly spoil the me-aid. I can't 'ave 
 Liza nether, 'er's busy wi' th^ ironin'. Go 'long wi' 
 'ee, then I I'd be proper ashamed o' meself always 
 trapesin' round. You'm eatin' all your white bread 
 
io6 
 
 'POSTLK FARM. 
 
 now, sure enou<,Mi ! " Then, kissing the baby, 
 " What's my little booty want ? Bless'n ! zo 'e 
 was I " 
 
 The baby showed its appreciation of this speech 
 by slapping its mother's worn face. But she only 
 kissed it the more rapturously and blessed it the 
 more fondly. If there be a bit of good temper 
 floating round a house, these lucky little people 
 get it. 
 
 "Go 'long, my gal!" said Mr MoUard, nodding 
 to Bessie. " I'll 'elp mother. Come along then, 
 Johnny ; zee if vather can vind wheer the 'ooks an* 
 buttons be." 
 
 He lifted the little boy on his knee, and began 
 fumbling about with his rough clumsy fingers. 
 
 Bessie, who had needed no second bidding to be 
 gone, was hurrying over the hill towards 'Postle 
 Farm. Cathie was waiting in a little hollow, and 
 the two girls proceeded together. 
 
 '"Ave 'ee got picturs vor show me?" inquired 
 Bessie eagerly. 
 
 " Ees ; finer nor any us 'ave ad." 
 
 " Wheer do 'ee get mun from ? " 
 
 "What's that si'nify?" 
 
 " Liza thinks 'ee witch mun in." 
 
 " 'Ave 'ee told Liza ? I an't got no patience with 
 a little zaney like you be ! I'll witch 'ee, sure 'nough, 
 if 'ee go blatherin' ! " 
 
 Cathie had stopped, and was glaring down at 
 Bessie, who cowered back from her. 
 
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WHEN rill-: DAY HUKAKS. 
 
 107 
 
 "I won't tell *er no more," she whimpered. 
 
 " I know 'ee won't : 'ec tongue'il rot in 'ee 'ead if 
 ee do." 
 
 "Twon't rot vor tellin' Liza, will't, Cathie?" 
 
 "Twill if I've a mind for let it," said Cathie, who 
 found her reputation for carrying the 2V\\ eye not 
 unuseful at times. 
 
 " I ain't gwin no farder with 'ee ! " said Bessie, 
 stopping short. " You'm a cruel wicked maid ! " 
 
 " No, I b'ain't," said Cathie, coaxingly drawing 
 Bessie's arm through her own. " See ! I'll tell 'ee 
 some'at. 'Fore nextest Sunday 'ee'll 'ave a new 'at." 
 
 " 'Ow do 'ee know ? " cried Bessie. 
 
 " I knows." 
 
 " I mind when I was to school, 'ee telled me I'd 
 get a drashin' 'vore day was out — an' I did, sure 
 'nough. But this what 'ee'm sayin' be proper. 
 What be the colour o' the 'at, Cathie.?" 
 
 " Oh, drat *ee ! I dunno — pink roses." 
 
 Bessie clasped her hands in .apture, but her 
 companion's quick pace had made her breathless, 
 and she could ask no more questions as they 
 ascended the hill. 
 
 " Be it pink roses, sure } " she inquired, the moment 
 they stopped at the door of 'Postle Farm. 
 
 " You ask another question an' thiccy 'at'll never 
 rache 'ee," said Cathie, putting up a warning finger. 
 Then she led the way upstairs and threw open 
 a door to the right. It led into a large low 
 room with two windows looking out on the hill- 
 
io8 
 
 'POSTLK FARM. 
 
 
 f; 
 
 !|[ 
 
 I 
 
 iMfj'l 
 
 side. A mass of nodding roses framed the land- 
 scape. A mahogany table, with a great pot of 
 long -stalked phlox in the centre, stood between 
 the windows. An old - fashioned arm - chair com- 
 pleted the furniture. 
 
 It is strange to think a charm should hang about 
 such a room as this. Yet charm there undoubtedly 
 was. Even Bessie stared a moment. Then she 
 asked — 
 
 "Where be the bed to?" 
 
 " This be my bes' parlour," said Cathie, with a 
 grand air. " I thought I'd jus' show it to 'ee." 
 
 She took one of the books from the table. 
 
 "Come 'long," she said, "in t'other room. I'll 
 show 'ee this." 
 
 " Lei's look to niun in 'ere," said Bessie. 
 
 "No; this be my room, an' I don't 'How no one 
 m it. 
 
 " But a parlour be always for company," objected 
 Bessie. 
 
 " Ees, an' I keeps it for company," said Cathie, 
 with a curious smile. 
 
 " What kind o' company ? " asked Bessie. " No 
 one comes along of 'ee barrin' me." 
 
 " I 'as my company for all that," said Cathie. 
 " Ladies an' genellmen — real betterment folk — 
 what's dressed finer nor any'ne you ever seed." 
 
 Bessie looked incredulous. "You be crazy, 
 Cathie ! " was all she said. 
 
 " Come 'long into my bedchumber," said Cathie 
 
WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 
 
 log 
 
 "an' jus' tell mc what be wrong wi' un, then I'll 
 show 'ec the picturs." 
 
 Bessie left the best parlour reluctantly. Once 
 in the bedroom, she walked round it with a criti- 
 cal air. 
 
 "The jug did oughter stan' in the basin, in 
 coorse!" she exclaimed, stopping in front of the 
 wash-handstand. 
 
 '• Well, put un in," said Cathie. 
 
 " An' the pillerses oughtcr be inside o* bed quilt." 
 
 " Put 'n in," said Cathie. 
 
 "An* these 'ere clothses didn't oughtcr be lyin* 
 round. They oughter be in the chesties. Mother's 
 got a cousin what lived lady's - maid up to the 
 Hall 'fore Lady Frobisher died, an' 'er saith 'er was 
 that nice-like, an' 'ad all the beautifuUest things — 
 silkses an' satinses for 'er handkshers — an' all laces 
 an* velvets an' sichlike stored away wi' lavender 
 in great oak chesties what come to the fam'ly 
 'underds years agone." 
 
 " Lavender ? What ! same as is on bushes ? 
 Well, us needn't be great ladies 'fore us can 'ave 
 that ! " said Cathie, with scorn. 
 
 "No, but us can't 'ave the velvets an* laces an* 
 oak chesties 'underds o' years in fam'ly." 
 
 " Grandfer's got a piece o' chinee downstairs wi* 
 his great - grandfather's name on un. Mad' o* 
 purpose ! '* 
 
 " Ees, I've seed mun ; but that ain't same as 
 velvets an' laces an' oak chesties." 
 
 ^H> 
 
no 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 IIIp 
 
 ', j 
 
 Cathie did not dispute the point. " He the 
 chumber right?" she asked. 
 
 *' Well, 'o oughtcr 'avc muslin contains, 'ee know. 
 Why," she exclaimed, "'ee've got a tooth-brush! 
 Do 'ee use mun ? " 
 
 *' Coorse I does — reglar ! " said Cathie. 
 
 " Basie Beer's a - got one too," remarked ]3essie. 
 " Vather says gin Xmas comes I shall *ave one too. 
 Do 'm lasty well ? " 
 
 " Oh ees, I s'pose, 'ccordin'to," replied Cathie. 
 "Come on now, an' I'll a-show 'ee the kitchen." 
 
 There were no faults of cleanliness to be found 
 in the kitchci, and the inspection being over, 
 Cathie said — 
 
 " Now 'ee can go an' look to the book, an' when 
 'ee've a-looked to mun 'ee can go 'ome. " 
 
 "All right," said Bessie. "An, Cathie, be sure 
 about they pink roses ? " 
 
 The three men entering the kitchen at that 
 moment, Cathie made no answer, and Bessie 
 hastily disappeared. 
 
 Cathie remained in the kitchen until she heard 
 Bessie leave the house. Then, while the men sat 
 dozing by the fire, she crept upstairs, changed her 
 frock, and entered her " bes' parlour." She sat 
 down quietly for a moment or two ; then rising, 
 she stealthily drew from out an old oak chest 
 a violin. She handled it tenderly, fingering the 
 strings with a loving touch. Then, standing in 
 
 I 
 

 WIIKN TIIK DAY HkllAKS. 
 
 Ill 
 
 the centre of the room, she drew her bow across 
 them and burst into a melody that grew faster and 
 faster as she played, then softer and softer, and 
 faded away into silence. 
 
 Cathie was not, of course, an accomplished player, 
 but there was something strangely arresting in the 
 power with which she handled the instrument. 
 
 She seated herself when she had finished, and 
 laying down her violin and bow, remained for a 
 few moments silent and with closed eyes. Then, 
 dropping on her knees and raising her beautiful 
 eyes to heaven, she cried in a low impassioned 
 voice — 
 
 "Angels of light, come to me! If 'ee leave 
 me, what be I for do ? Raise me to somc'at 
 higher nor what I be. God hear me ! Amen." 
 
 Her head sank forward on her breast, and she 
 remained motionless. A broad silver band of 
 moonlight swept through the curtainless window 
 and played like purest thoughts about her. She 
 opened her eyes suddenly, and sprang to her feet 
 with a cry of ecstasy. 
 
 "Oh, Lord, 'ee've sent mun!" she said in an 
 awestruck whisper, and dropping into her chair, 
 she remained quietly seated, apparently watching 
 tho movements of people about the room. But 
 tlinigh she turned her head sometimes in one 
 direction, sometimes in another, sometimes faintly 
 smiling, sometimes bending forward as if to catch 
 the faintest sound, somctinKs raisinrj her head 
 
 il 
 
in 
 
 112 
 
 'POST-LE FARM. 
 
 II :il: 
 
 M 
 
 ^i« I 
 
 /i h 
 
 ' n 
 
 upwards or shaking it with a little sigh, the 
 strangest part was that through it all her eyes 
 remained closed. 
 
 Her wonderful imagination peopled the room 
 with airy forms and agitated the air with gentle 
 words, which sometimes warned her and some- 
 times inspired her with hope, but always breathed 
 to her of love and patient striving. 
 
 Poor " Crazy Cathie " ! She had her wonderful 
 moments of exaltation, the God-given compensa- 
 tion to a rich and beautiful nature cramped within 
 unnatural limits. 
 
 For fully half an hour she remained in this 
 transport of happiness : then her face suddenly 
 fell. It was almost as if a light shining from 
 within had been turned down. 
 
 " They be gone ! " she said, opening her eyes 
 and looking round the room. The moonlight 
 streamed on the bare floor and unpapered walls. 
 Ca,thie gave a profound sigh ; then suddenly her 
 face became again radiantly illuminated. 
 
 " Ah, but they've been ! " she cried, clasping her 
 hands. " I thought they'd gone for ever, an' my 
 'eart was broke. But they've been ; an' though 
 I can't see 'em now no more, I feels 'em. They 
 telled me truly when they spoke o' God. He 
 don't forget us, though He seem'th for hide His 
 face a while." 
 
 That night, as Crazy Cathie lay on her white bed, 
 
WHEN THE DAY 13KEAKS. 113 
 
 a painter might have died to give the radiance of 
 her face, and be glad that even with his life he had 
 bought it. For no one could look upon her as 
 she slumbered and remain as vile as before; no 
 one gazing upon her could believe that the body 
 holds but a transient soul, and life— Immortal Life 
 —is extinguished with the grave. The magnifi- 
 cent design of the Creator was written on'' the 
 face of this woman, and no man looking down 
 on her could doubt it. There was that on Crazy 
 Cathie's face that gave the lie direct to the cark- 
 ing materialist, and opened for earth a sudden 
 vista of heaven. 
 
 n ^ 
 
 li 
 
114 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 
 if: ■• 
 
 iji 
 
 As time passed Grandfer noticed the improved 
 appearance of the dinner-table. 
 
 "Voli<s is got zo vine nowadays!" he said, with 
 as close an approach to a grumble as he ever got. 
 "Why, I can mind the time when mother 'd tak' 
 a girt crock full o' tetties an' drow mun ins towzer 
 apern on's table ; an' them as liked mixed tetties 
 took an' mixed mun, 'long o' goat's milk — or butter- 
 milk gin us 'ad it vor spare ; an' them as liked mun 
 as mun was, would tak' an' peel mun an' dip in's zalt 
 an' eat mun. Us 'adn' no dishes, noor knives noor 
 voorks ; an* themmy zalt-zellar things — why, bless 
 my zoul, us never thought on sichlike ! an' what was 
 good 'nough vor my mother's good 'nough for me, 
 ai\' them as comes after me, I reckon." 
 
 He caught his breath with a sudden thought as 
 he glanced at the girl, and he patted her shoulder 
 as she came near him with a pile of plates. 
 
 " But you do as you'm a mind vor do, ma-deear," 
 he said kindly, and he sank into a reverie. "Oh 
 
WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 
 
 "5 
 
 Loord, Loord ! " he muttered, with a heavy sigh, as 
 he turned to his food. 
 
 "What be thinkin' on, Grandfer.?" said Cathie. 
 
 He pulled himself together. 
 
 " Why, I was jus' a-thinkin' 'ow 'ard times used for 
 be, — when us 'ad the barley bread wi' the girt long 
 barley ears in't. Volks wasn't so nice-stomached 
 then, bless 'ee! An' tay — bless my life, us couldn' 
 'ford no tay ! Us picked organ, an' mad' organ tay. 
 I mind, 'vore Annie were born, the missus took an' 
 bought a ounce 'gainst the 'casion-like, an' kep it 
 in's cupboard under look an' key. *Twas a strugglin' 
 time; an' I mind 'ow, the day after Annie were born, 
 'er zat up in's bed an' went to gloverin'. Theer warn't 
 no machines in them days; 'er zewed mun wi' vinger 
 an' thumb, an' got but shillin' the dozen, an' 'ad vor 
 pay a 'oman penny a dozen vor carr' mun in to shop; 
 zo theer warn't much profit in't. Why, wages was 
 but six shillin' a-week, an' that wi' wheat a guinea a 
 bag ! Us 'ad to reckon, an' then go 'vore vor vang the 
 wages ; an' times I mind when theer warn't nothin* 
 vor vang. 'Twas 'ard times, sure 'nough ! Why, us 
 'ad vor zell 'alf the pig vor buy zalt vor zalt down 
 t'other 'alf! Ees, us 'ad zo, zalt was that dear! 
 Ah, ma-deear, they was times!" 
 
 " Then I dunno what 'ee'm grumblin' at now," 
 said Cathie cheerfully. 
 
 "No, ma-decar, 'twas a slip o' tongue. I don't 
 like vor zee 'ee put things 'vore in a unstomachable 
 manner, don't go vor think I doy 1 " He glanced 
 
 \\i 
 
 i% 
 
i!i 
 
 111 
 
 Sii: 
 
 II 
 
 '1 
 
 ' \t 
 
 Ii6 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 round the kitchen. " I like vor zee 'ee 'ave't all 
 natty-like — an* a bit grand-like too" — stroking 
 the rough tablecloth with his fingers — " when ee've 
 a mind vor't." 
 
 As over the dwelling - rooms of 'Postle Farm a 
 change had come, so also had a change come over 
 the face of the girl. Its dark lowering look was 
 giving place to the earlier expression of her child- 
 hood. With knowledge, the darkness that had 
 wrapped her mind after her accident proved itself 
 no darkness at all, but merely obliteration of 
 memory over a certain number of years. A great 
 joy filled her heart as she recognised — with the 
 opportunity of proving it — the strength and quick- 
 ness of her brain. Her beauty gave her no plea- 
 sure, but her power to understand and to fix 
 facts in her memory gave her a joy that was 
 supreme. 
 
 For Temple came often now, in the guise of 
 teacher. 
 
 "B'ain't I quick at larnin'?" she cried one day, 
 after she had repeated all he had taught her. She 
 clapped her hands like a child for joy. " I'll be a 
 scholard yet, won' I } " 
 
 "Why do you want so much to lea»'n?" he asked. 
 
 "Oh, I mus', I mus', I mus' !" she cried. " I want 
 for know things ! It's right inside me that I do ! 
 If 'ee killed the feelin', 'ee'd kill me— that's 'ow 'tis! 
 I be jus' bound up wi' it ! " 
 
 " But what good is it go' g to do you ?" 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 
 
 117 
 
 She looked at him with scorn and a little dis- 
 appointment. 
 
 "There! 'ee tak' all the love o' life straight out 
 o' me. You'm foolish, that's what you be!" she 
 finished, evidently finding relief in this statement. 
 
 "I didn't mean to be foolish." 
 
 "Couldn' elp o't, I's'pose," she said, with a re- 
 signed sigh. 
 
 " I don't see it was so very foolish," he answered, 
 nettled. " After all, zvhat use is it .? " 
 
 " Oh, go 'long ! " she answered angrily, then added, 
 " If there ain't no use in it, why do 'ee come ? " 
 
 He was si'ent. 
 
 " What be there things to larn on, if there b'ain't 
 no manner o' use in knowin' of 'em ? " she continued. 
 "But there! I can't tak' no more pleasure in't!" 
 she finished, looking with disheartened eyes across 
 the sandy banks of the river. 
 
 "God forbid I should discourage you!" he cried 
 impulsively. 
 
 "Oh, don' matter," she answered, moving slowly 
 towards the farm. 
 
 " Don't take any notice of what I said ! " he cried, 
 stepping in front of her. " With a brain like yours 
 you might attain to anything ! " 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 " I don' want no one to larn me an' think 'tis ol' 
 foolishness. No," she continued, as if to herself, 
 "you b'ain't the right un. Some one else, I s'pose' 
 mus' larn me— for I be gwin for larn, 'ee know,'' 
 
 111 
 
 j'^ 
 
 Jii 
 
Ii8 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 ii 
 
 :!ifi 
 
 'a^i 
 
 t 
 
 she finished, raising her head with a fine determina- 
 tion, and turning her dark eyes full upon him. 
 
 He met them humbly. 
 
 " I made a mistake," he said ; " I see it now." 
 
 " No, no," she answered impatiently, " I mad' the 
 mistake! 'Ee b'ain't the right *un for teach me. 
 I mus' lam o' some other body." 
 
 " No, you mustn't ; you must learn of me. I re- 
 tract what I said. I believe good will come to you 
 through knowledge." 
 
 " Zartain zure } " she asked wistfully. 
 
 " Zartain zure," he answered, smiling. 
 
 "'Ee know, I s'pose, I've a-got avil eye.^" 
 
 " No, I didn't. But I'm not afraid of it." 
 
 " When I was a chil* they tellecl me I *ad ; an* 
 zure 'nough I 'ave. I knows it now. I've a-tried 
 un. 
 
 " Whom did you try it on ? " 
 
 " What odds be that to 'ee >" 
 
 " Well, don't try it on me," he answered, laughing. 
 
 " Coorse not ! " she answered ; but she laughed a 
 little wickedly. 
 
 " Shall I come to-morrow and teach you about 
 the sun and the stars ? You're always asking about 
 them." 
 
 " Please 'ee self," she answered, passing up the 
 hill. 
 
 Temple looked after her. 
 
 "Gracious, any way," he muttered, as he turned 
 back to the boat. 
 
119 
 
 , 
 
 I 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 One Sunday afternoon Miah Sluman hung over 
 the farm gate watching the sheep feeding con- 
 tentedly on the hillside. 
 
 There was nothing in his dress to show the day 
 —nothing in any part of the farm that seemed to 
 point to it, except the farm -horses enjoying their 
 weekly rest under a warm October sun, and making 
 the best of it by having a thorough good feed, so 
 far as the somewhat scanty pasture would allow 
 of it. 
 
 Miah Sluman was thinking. His mind was cast 
 on matrimony. 
 
 For five years he had been a lone widower. 
 It was not tender memories of his deceased wife 
 that had kept him so long from choosing another 
 to take her place. When she first died he had 
 had a dim notion of taking Cathie to himself, as 
 soon as she should reach a marriageable age. But 
 the girl's strong temper and indifferent domestic 
 abilities had soon changed the current of his 
 thoughts. He had remained single because, had 
 
 
 (' 
 
I 
 
 !^|f 
 
 liiS 
 
 
 ' V •',!: 
 
 I' 
 
 120 
 
 'rOSTLE FARM. 
 
 he chosen a wife, he would have had to pay for 
 her board at the farm, or have moved elsewhere. 
 
 Lately, however, his old project had again come 
 uppermost in his mind. Cathie was old enough 
 now to be married, and her domestic abilities had 
 improved conspicuously. Crazy she undoubtedly 
 was, but not crazy enough to matter particularly ; 
 and as for the evil eye — well, he would risk that 
 to inherit old Grand fer's savings. 
 
 For many weeks he had changed his rough 
 humour towards her. He never complained now 
 if the meals were not ready or the work not done. 
 On market days, once or twice, he had even come 
 back with a c;>nfection for her; and on one mem- 
 orable occasion he had stood outside a draper's 
 window fingering the shilling in his pocket for 
 over half an hour before he could decide to part 
 with it and bring her home a fairing. This fairing 
 Cathie had promptly thr jwn behind the fire. She 
 hated the man Miah with the whole force of her 
 nature. 
 
 As he leant over the gate he pondered the mat- 
 ter over slowly and cautiously. When at length 
 he turned towards the house his mind was made up. 
 He would ask Cathie in marriage. First, however, 
 he must win over Grandfer, for the old man had 
 more influence over the girl than any one else 
 had. 
 
 Grandfer was sitting by the fire, peacefully dozing, 
 when Miah entered the kitchen. Miah sat down 
 
t 
 
 I 
 
 WHEN TIIK DAY BRKAKS. 
 
 121 
 
 with a great clatter, and the old man awoke with 
 a start. 
 
 " I was just about thinkin' on Cathie," said Miah. 
 
 "Ha!" said Grandfer. 
 
 " 'Er'U 'ave to be married shoortly, an' then what 
 be us to do ? " 
 
 *• Time 'nough — time 'nough," said Grandfer. 
 
 " Us mus' 'ave a woman - volk vor mind the 
 ple-ace." 
 
 " Ees, ees," said Grandfer uneasily. 
 
 "Betterways let the me-aid marry of me. The 
 farm lease '11 come on 'er when 'ee'm dade an' buried ; 
 an' eef I marry 'er, zee, that'll zettle it all oop vine." 
 
 " 'Er won't never marry," said the old man, whom 
 the speech had evidently disturbed. 
 
 "'Er ain't no proper kin to me," continued Miah. 
 
 Grandfer looked up with a start. 
 
 *' Us can go into Registry Orfice, an' no one 
 wouldn' gainzay it — more 'special if us went over 
 su var as Fammelsee. No one don' know nothin' 
 'bout us over theer." 
 
 " 'Ow can 'ee zay 'er ain't no proper kin to 'ee, 
 when 'ee know as 'ow 'ee wife was blood-relationcd 
 aunt to the me-aid } " inquired Grandfer. " What 
 be talkin' 'bout? Be gwin vor get 'eeseif clapped 
 i' prison ? " 
 
 " No one wouldn' know nothin' on't," said Miah, 
 sulkily. " Us could go to Registry Orfice." 
 
 " No, no ! " said Grandfer ; " no kith an' kin o' 
 mine but enter the church proper, an' 'as their 
 
 !l 'i' 
 
 ffTHR 
 
 III 
 
122 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 
 MM] 
 
 • ' i 
 
 fgmM I '' 
 
 HDin ' 
 
 
 nVn 
 
 1 •! 
 
 nH' 
 
 1 ]'■ 
 
 w 
 
 1 1 
 i 
 
 1 pi -i ' ' 
 
 11 ^ \ 
 
 ii 
 
 
 bannses a-holHed up in a proper manner. God 
 sakes, man, what's my fam'ly comin* to?" 
 
 " Blow me eef I can zee aught disrespectable in 
 Registry Orfice ! " 
 
 " Well, Registry Orfice or church don't mak' no 
 manner o' differ'nce. The me-aid won't 'ave 'eel 
 Why, 'er'd scorn 'ee ! " said the old man, with a fine 
 scorn in his own voice. 
 
 "Scornful cats mus' eat rotten mice!" said Miah, 
 disagreeably. 
 
 "'Er won't *ave 'ee!" said Grandfer, stretching 
 out his legs and trying to look as if he considered 
 the question comfortably disposed of. It irritated 
 Miah ; his temper rose. 
 
 " By , I'll mak' 'er ! " he cried. 
 
 '• 'Er never won't," repeated Grandfer ; " an' what's 
 more, Miah, I don' mean 'er should !" 
 
 Miah leant forward and fixed his nasty narrow 
 eyes on Grandfer. 
 
 "Look 'ee 'ere," he said, "'er'll 'ave for do't! 
 'Tain't no manner o' use vor 'ee to ^^ject — 'er'U 
 'ave to come — zee? Thiccy me-aid '11 be mine 
 avore month's out. 'Ee'd betterways answer oop, 
 *er shall, an' let 'er be married decent. When my 
 mind's a-mad' oop, it tak's more 'n ol' dotty like 
 you be vor turn 'n, zee.?" 
 
 Grandfer began to tremble violently. He feared 
 his son-in-law. He loved the girl. For the love 
 of her, though his tongue clove to the roof of his 
 mouth, he raised his fist, exclaiming — 
 
 I 
 
 i 
 
WHEN tiil: day breaks. 
 
 123 
 
 I 
 
 i 
 
 "Miah Sluman, while this tramblin' body keeps 
 my zoul, the me-aid slian't go to 'ee vvi' my consent. 
 I'll keep 'er from 'arm while I draw my breath, zo 
 'elp me God Almighty!" 
 
 An ugly darkness settled on the younger man's 
 face. 
 
 "You've a-give ycr word," he said, rising; "now 
 tak' the consequences o't ! " 
 
 He moved towards the door. 
 
 " If 'ee 'arm of 'er," cried Grandfer, tottering to 
 his feet and speaking with strong passion, "God 
 Almighty blast an' curse *ee!" 
 
 He tried to follow his son-in-law to the door, 
 but his trembling limbs refused to carry him. 
 
 Meanwhile, far out on the lonely uplands of the 
 farm Catherine wandered. And the October sun 
 shone down on her ripe beauty, and she stretched 
 out her beautiful arms and sobbed 
 
 "Teach me the meanin' o' life! Oh, let me 
 un'erstan' it!" 
 
124 
 
 ;' 
 
 ■i\ 
 
 i! 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 " I'm getting tired of this place, Cockscy ! " 
 
 The speaker was a good-looking girl of about 
 twenty. She stood at the window of a picturesque 
 cottage overlooking the river Teel. The rain, 
 which descended in a light shower, gave a dreari- 
 ness to a view that one could well imagine beautiful 
 in fine weather. 
 
 Cocksey looked up with a start. " Oh dear ! oh 
 dear ! " she said. 
 
 Any one having once seen Cocksey would not 
 dream of asking why she was called Cocksey. She 
 was a woman on the very shady side of thirty, and 
 had the appearance of a worn-out old cock with 
 its tail feathers gone. 
 
 " Oh dear ! oh dear ! " she said again. She had 
 dropped her fancywork, and looked the very image 
 of despair. 
 
 The girl looked at her, amused. 
 
 " I don't think, you know, this place altogether 
 agrees with you. That's why I am leaving." 
 
 "Oh, my dear, pray, pray don't leave on my 
 
 I 
 
WHEN TMK DAY RRF.AKS. 
 
 125 
 
 I 
 
 account! I assmv \f>ii, to me the place is (juito 
 a little haven of refuge. We've been here nearly 
 six months now — six blessed, peaceful months! 
 Oh ! Madge, my dear, dout leave on my account ! 
 1 assure you, no place ever agreed with me so 
 well before." 
 
 " I'm sure it doesn't ; you only think so. Your 
 hair, I am certain, is redder since we came, and 
 you've ever so many more freckles. No, Cocksey, 
 we must move." 
 
 Cocksey sighed. " Since you say it," she said 
 resignedly, and she took up her fancywork again, 
 running on to herself as she did so — 
 
 "All the boxes — and the bills too. Ten large 
 boxes — and those dreadful packages — the two dogs 
 — the cat — the six kittens — and that awful monkey ! 
 All to move. Oh dear! oh dear! I dread it worse 
 and worse each time. Madge, my dear, promise 
 me one thing — you will get rid of some of the cats, 
 so that we needn't pack them all } You see, it 
 isn't only the packing — it's when we get to the 
 new place — you know they never stay ! Some one 
 always lets them out just before they're used to 
 the new grounds. Oh dear ! moving would be 
 nothing — I mean, comparatively speaking, nothing 
 — if it weren't for the cats ! " 
 
 " I'm quite prepared to take the risk." 
 
 " But, my dear, it's useless to talk like that. 
 You know, I feel the responsibility so terribly ! 
 I must feel it, whatever 
 
 you 
 
 )ugh 
 
126 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 to say ! My dear, are you quite sure you must 
 move ? " 
 
 "Yes; I've got an idea." 
 
 Cocksey groaned. 
 
 " I am going to farm. I am not going to be 
 a lady farmer, but a real ordinary farmer : live in 
 the kitchen, you know — wash my own clothes — 
 drive into market — wear aprons — make the butter 
 — milk my own cows " 
 
 Here Cocksey's exclamations, which had been 
 growing louder and louder, broke into a wail, and 
 Madge had to stop in the middle of her catalogue. 
 
 " Don't you like the idea ? " she asked. 
 
 " Every one gets worse ! " said Cocksey. " What 
 will all the people say.?" 
 
 "I shan't ask them to say anything." 
 
 "But that's just when they say most." 
 
 "Now, Cocksey, haven't you lived with me ever 
 since I began to learn spelling.?" 
 
 Cocksey shook her head, but not in dissent. It 
 was merely in melancholy remembrance of all she 
 had suffered during that period. 
 
 "Well, you really ought to know by this time 
 I don't: care what people say. I never have." 
 
 " Oh, but you will ! " cried Cocksey, rocking 
 herself to and fro. "You will, some day — and 
 then, perhaps, it'll be all too late. Oh, my 
 dear! I feel so melanrboly, pray, pray draw up 
 the blind ! Let us have all the light there is. 
 These dark days are sadly depressing. Oh, 
 
1 
 
 WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 
 
 127 
 
 It 
 
 i 
 
 Madge, my dear, if you only could be like other 
 people ! " 
 
 " I'll try," said Madge. 
 
 " No, no ! it wouldn't do either ; you'd spoil your- 
 self. Oh dear! ten large boxes— and all those 
 packages— and the live stock! When's the move 
 to be, my dear ? " 
 
 " Oh, as soon as possible. I tell you what I " catch- 
 ing the companion by her arm; "it's wet— let's 
 begin packing now!" 
 
 Madge's sudden freaks were a constant source 
 of anxiety to Cocksey. But she now faced the 
 inevitable as usual, and followed her charge from 
 the room with a cheerful tripping step. 
 
 It was not until she had retired for the night 
 that she wished for the hundred and twentieth time 
 Madge would conquer the dislike she felt for her 
 stepmother, and take up her proper position again 
 in her old home at Fardwortly Court. But of this 
 there was little hope. Sir Robert Montague was an 
 affectionate father; but second wives exert a won- 
 derful influence over their spouses, and the poor 
 man had to see his son's visits grow fewer, and 
 his daughter fly the house, without daring to offer 
 a protest 
 
 ■ (;: 
 
 
 I 
 
 It 
 
125 
 
 ii* * ,11 ,;■ 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 On the Sunday afternoon, when Miah started out 
 in search of Cathie, he had to walk some con- 
 siderable distance before his efforts were rewarded. 
 At last he saw the girl's tall figure silh(^uetted 
 against the sky as she walked along the edge of 
 the hill. 
 
 He climbed up the hill along the side of the 
 low stone wall. At the gate at the top they met 
 face to face. They looked at each other a long 
 while. Then the man's eyes dropped. 
 
 "What be after?" said Cathie. 
 
 " My dear," said Miah, in a wheedling tone, " I 
 be after you ! One way an' 'nother, 'ee know I 
 be gettin' jus' maze over 'ee ! " 
 
 Cathie threw back her head and laughed. 
 
 "Dear life!" she cried, "the zight these men 
 volk think o' theirsels ! " 
 
 "Don't 'ee anger me!" cried Miah. "By , 
 
 I'll mak' 'ee suffer for't if 'ee do ! " 
 
 She looked at him a moment. 
 
 " Ees," she said, " 'ee speak vine ! But 'ee aren't 
 
WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 
 
 129 
 
 never 'armed me for all that-an 'ee never will t 
 'Ee dursn't!" 
 
 She threw up her head proudly as she spoke. 
 "Dursn't I?" he sncirled, and he caught her by 
 the wrist. 
 
 She wrenched herself free. She was white 
 "Miah Sluman," she said, «eef 'ee go vor dap 
 'ee 'and on me, 'twill be the avilest day 'ee ever 
 zeed. I'll tell 'ee some'at more as I'm jus' on 
 tellin'. 'Ee'll feel mighty queer when 'ee lie down 
 to-night in wracksles o' pain. That'll teach 'ee 
 kep' scarce o' me, I reckon." 
 
 Miah was a superstitious man. "What do 'ee 
 mean?" he faltered. 
 
 •"Vore 'tis sunset 'ee'll know," she answered, 
 turning towards the farm. 
 
 " A tricksy avil-eyed witch 'ee be ! " he muttered, 
 and for the life of him he could not molest her 
 any further, so strong and deep-rooted was his 
 suDerstition. 
 
 i P S'i 
 
 ' Si 
 
 1 
 
 » l 
 
 i» il 
 
 11 4 
 
I 
 
 r 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
 'ilS ' 
 
 130 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 "Cathie, ma-deear," called Grandfer through the 
 open kitchen door, " tak' 'vore the pigs wheer 
 the oakses be. Theer be scores an' scores o' oak- 
 masses theer. They'll pick up what'll zatisfy 
 mun more nor 'underds o' other me-at. Drive 
 mun 'vore, Hke a good me-aid, wull 'ee?" 
 
 " Drat they ol' pegsies ! " muttered Cathie. She 
 had intended meeting Temple, but the pigs would 
 take her in the opposite direction. 
 
 But Cathie was fond of animals, no matter if it 
 were only a grunting sow. When she threw open 
 the doors of the several sties, and the pigs came 
 out, some sedately and demurely, some with frisks 
 and capers and squeals of youthful joy, she en- 
 tered into their feelings with a readj. sympathy. 
 
 " Bless mun ! " she cried, as the smaller ones 
 capered out of the yard with a frisk of their 
 curly tails. "Mus' be vine vor un vor get out 
 an' 'bout bit. Eef I was a-clemmed up in bit 
 pigs-'ou'ie, 'twould come cruel 'ard ; an' zo it do to 
 they, I'll be bound!" 
 
 I 
 
I 
 
 WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 
 
 131 
 
 This marching with the pigs seriously delayed 
 her, for they ran many times in the wrong direc- 
 tion. With happy laughter, and Shep to help her, 
 she chased them back, forgetting for the time 
 being her appointment with Temple. 
 
 When at last she greeted him, it was at an 11 n 
 propitious moment. The little boat shooting across 
 the river had more than once attracted Miaii's 
 attention, without its making any real impression 
 on him, or arousing his suspicions. He noticed 
 it riding on the tide now, and he stood still and 
 watched. 
 
 When there was an appointment it was Temple's 
 custom at this time to remain on the river -bank 
 until Cathie walked before him to their trysting- 
 place. This was always a sign that all was 
 clear. 
 
 Miah stood watching, more out of idle curiosity 
 than because he had any suspicions. Presently 
 Cathie came back from her walk with the pigs, 
 and as she stepped on to the open hillside the 
 stranger began to mount the hill. 
 
 Then Cathie's quick eyes fell upon Miah, and 
 she turned back abruptly. At the same moment 
 the figure on the hillside paused, and after a 
 moment's indecision returned to the boat. 
 
 Miah's slow brain could not at the moment 
 catch the full significance of this ; but he had 
 sense enough to move forward as though he had 
 observed nothing. 
 
 hi 
 
 i| 
 
 .1 
 
13^ 
 
 •POSTLE FARM. 
 
 i 
 
 I i 
 
 He jumped on to the butt, and with a " Get oop 
 theer!" to Polly, rumbled out of sight. As soon 
 as he had passed over the crest of the hill, he 
 pulled the mare up, scrambled down, and stole 
 stealthily forward under shadow of the hedge. 
 When he came to a coign of vantage he paused. 
 With his mouth gaping and his narrow eyes 
 screwed up, he watched with bated breath. 
 
 Yes ; it was as he expected. 
 
 Cathie presently appeared, and three minutes 
 later she was joined by the other figure, and the 
 two proceeded together till they were lost to 
 sight in the shadow of the wood. 
 
 From that moment his eye was on them. Of 
 course there were days when he was on a distant 
 part of the farm ; but whenever he was anywhere 
 within range at all, his narrow eyes observed the 
 river with a dogged persistence. At first his one 
 idea was to tell Grandfer, and get Cathie into 
 trouble. But he soon argued, what good would 
 that do } No ; he would hold his secret in readi- 
 ness, so that he might some day, through it, force 
 her into compliance with his own wishes. 
 
 ' 
 
133 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 J-l 
 
 (lii 
 
 Ml 
 
 " Tell me, what do you think of all day ? '* 
 
 Temple asked the question of Cathie as they sat 
 on the hillside one afternoon. He had never again 
 spoken of the uselessness of her learning. 
 
 "I think o' a whole mine o' things," she 
 answered. 
 
 "Do you ever think of me?" he asked. 
 
 "Times I do," she answered, looking at him 
 archly. "Does that please *ee.^" 
 
 He felt the tables had been turned on him. He 
 laughed. 
 
 " Well, yes ; to be quite candid, I think it does," 
 he answered. 
 
 " 'Tis queer of 'ee to tak' up wi' a maid like me," 
 she said. "I s'pose I be so powerful ignorant, an' 
 that amuses of *ee." 
 
 " You delight and charm me," he answered, " be- 
 cause you are so full of simplicity and candour, 
 and you have such charming fancies, and you are 
 so marvellously anxious to learn. You love read- 
 ing, you love music, you love the landscape, and 
 
 ; 1 
 it 
 
 -it 
 
i 
 
 It 
 
 1-4! 
 
 \4 \ i' 
 
 II : li 
 
 ril 
 
 134 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 your old grandfather — things animate and in- 
 animate ; your heart is brimful of love. You are 
 always saying and doing things that upset all my 
 previous calculations. You are a woman to your 
 .ery finger-tips, and you are very beautiful, Cathie." 
 
 "Be I?" 
 
 The praise of her character and her charms had 
 pleased her, but, woman - like, the last assurance 
 gave her the most pleasure of all. He exclaimed 
 in surprise that he believed it had. 
 
 She laughed up at him. 
 
 " Beauty belong'th to a woman like," she said. 
 ** Same 'ee'd sooner 'ear me say as 'ow you was 
 a proper man, nor you was this, that, an' t'other. 
 'Tis nat'ral like for man for tak' pleasure in 'is 
 strength, an' a woman in 'er looks. Ain't that 
 so?" 
 
 " It is," he answered, smiling into her eyes. 
 
 " An' I be beautiful > " she asked. 
 
 "You are the most beautiful girl I have ever 
 seen." 
 
 " What ! I be .? Do 'ee mean it— true ? " 
 
 « I do." 
 
 " More beautiful," she asked, leaning a little 
 towards him, "nor that pictur 'ee showed me in 
 'ee breast coat-pocket?" 
 
 Temple got up abruptly, and Cathie smiled to 
 herself. 
 
 " Of course one always makes an exception of the 
 woman one is going to marry," he answered. 
 
 I 
 
 ■ A ■ 
 
 'lii: 
 
I 
 
 I 
 
 WHEN THE DAY 15REAKS. 
 
 135 
 
 "Be 'ee a-gwin for marry her you showed me in 
 the pictur?" 
 
 " I hope to some day, if she will have me." 
 "An' 'er be more beautiful nor what I be?" 
 "Every man," he said, with a forced smile, 
 
 "thinks the woman he loves more beautiful than 
 
 any other." 
 
 "Does un?" said Cathie, interested "That be 
 nice for 'er an' nice for 'e, b'ain't it?" 
 "Very." 
 
 "An' 'ee think the lady in the pictur more 
 beautiful nor me?" 
 
 "I did not say so," he answered. 
 
 "Fey 'ee did! 'Ee said 'ee was gwin for marry 
 'er, an' 'ee said as 'ow the woman a man loves 
 be more beautiful to un nor any other. Now, 
 be she more beautiful nor me?" 
 
 "You are different," he said. " I mean, you are a 
 girl in a thousa-^d. You, if you were in your right 
 position, would be the belle of the season." 
 
 "The bell? My word! Should I 'ave for clip 
 clap loud?" 
 
 "Not that sort of bell at all," he answered, 
 frowning; "it's a French word — a stupid vulgar 
 one." 
 
 "Then why do 'ee use mun?" 
 
 "To veil my meaning. I thought if I said 'the 
 beauty of the season ' I might make you conceited. 
 I don't want to do that." 
 
 "Ay, but 'ee'd 'ave for think a powerful deal o' a 
 
Wi 
 
 136 
 
 'rOSTLE FARM. 
 
 i'f 1 
 
 man 'fore *ee*d heed what 'e said or feel any the 
 more consequent for't. You needn't be afeared for 
 speak out plain." 
 
 Then after a pause — 
 
 " So I be more beautiful nor what 'er be ? " 
 
 He got up. 
 
 " What mak's 'ee so jumpsome? Sit still." 
 
 " You want to keep hearing the same thing over 
 and over again." 
 
 " I reckon I be like mos' women volk in that." 
 
 He sat down again. 
 
 " B'ain't I ? Now, 'ee've a-knowed a sight more 
 maids nor me. Tell me now, b'ain't I like the rest 
 o' 'em ? " 
 
 " You are like no woman at all," he said. 
 
 Her face fell. 
 
 " B'ain't I like a woman at all } " she asked. 
 
 " You have gathered up more of nature than most 
 women," he said, absently opening and closing the 
 book he held. "You are not like any one single 
 woman I ever met. You are like a great many 
 of the best of them rolled into one." 
 
 She was evidently pleased with this. The corners 
 of her mouth twitched ; then she burst into a little 
 peal of happy laughter. 
 
 " What are you laughing at } " asked Temple. 
 
 " Oh, some'at," she answered. 
 
 " So I suppose — but what ? " 
 
 " On a sight o' things." 
 
 She laughed again, — that happy irresistible 
 
WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 
 
 '37 
 
 
 lers 
 ttle 
 
 ble 
 
 laugh that a woman tries to check by hiding 
 her face in the coat of a pet anim.il or in the 
 soft neck of a baby. It was irritating to be out- 
 side of it, because it sounded as if it must be so 
 delightful to be within. 
 
 " I may as well go," said Temple, rising. 
 
 She leaned forward and looked up at him. Her 
 eyes were sparkling. 
 
 " Be angered ? " she asked. 
 
 "No," he answered, putting down his hands to 
 hers to help her rise, " I'm not angry ; but when 
 you're in this mood you're maddening." 
 
 *• Well, I won't be, then ! You sit down an' read, 
 an' I'll 'earken an' won't speak." 
 
 So he let go her hands, and threw himself on the 
 ground beside her, and opening the book, began to 
 read. 
 
 At the end of every paragraph he raised his 
 eyes and met hers. It was not to him a compli- 
 mentary meeting. She was looking right through 
 him, oblivious of his presence, only hanging on the 
 words that fell from his lips ; and as, of course, 
 they were not original words, his position was not 
 one calculated to raise his self-esteem. 
 
 There came a day, however, when he raised his 
 eyes from the book and found her looking far away 
 across the hills. 
 
 " Cathie," he said, " you're not attending." 
 
 «Ees,"shesaid, "I be." 
 
 '• 
 
MJ 
 
 li'l^' 
 
 138 
 
 POSTLE FARM. 
 
 He returned to tlic book, but on looking up again, 
 her eyes were still afar off, 
 
 *' What are you thinking of? " he asked. 
 
 " I'm just 'earkenin'." 
 
 " Well, why don't you look at me when you 
 hearken ? " 
 
 " Because I can come at it better nor when I do." 
 
 "Why? Am I distracting?" 
 
 " Bless my soul, you b'ain't distractin' ! " slie 
 answered ; " 'tis the hills is 'elpsome." 
 
 And ever afterwards it was to the hills she 
 looked, and he chafed under it. It was worse 
 than being looked right through as if he were 
 glass. 
 
 One day she stopped him in his reading. 
 
 " Ah, I like thiccy ! " she cried. " Loved 'er same 
 though her dress were ol' 'nough an* she 'adn't 
 no money." 
 
 " Dress and money don't make any difference 
 where love is." 
 
 "'Twould to me. I should want the bestest 
 I could 'ave. 'Tis always the same ol' story, b'ain't 
 it?" she continued slowly. "The love o' man an' 
 maid. An' the betterment folk reads it." 
 
 " Rather ! He was our poet laureate — that is, 
 the first poet in the land. 'Tis love makes the 
 world go round, you know." 
 
 " Ees ; I s'pose 'tis the spring in the cart, an' 
 when 'tis broke goes mortal uneasy." 
 
 " Love comes in all manner of forms and shapes," 
 
WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 
 
 130 
 
 ft 
 
 IS, 
 
 the 
 
 an' 
 
 >> 
 ;s, 
 
 he soh'loquiscd. " There arc no people in the whole 
 world who affect us precisely in the same way. 
 Even in a woman's love for her children, though 
 she love them equally, she loves them in different 
 ways. How wonderful, when one thinks of it, is 
 that great gift of Love which suits itself to the 
 person and meets us in a thousand different guises ! 
 — some of them so subtle in their difference that 
 half of us patter through life unperceiving ; just in 
 the same way as the gradations of light and colour 
 on the landscape pass unheeded by the eye that 
 lacks the perception of beauty. Love has a thousand 
 wings, a thousand eyes, a thousand sides." 
 
 Catherine laid her hand on his arm, and he 
 turned to her. 
 
 " Don't 'ee forget," she said in a low voice, 
 "however many starlings be in the flight, there's 
 one a bit ahead, a bit the first. There's one as 
 guides the lot o' mun!" 
 
 " Of course there is always one supreme love," 
 he said. 
 
 "'Twould be powerful awkward if us mistook 
 the wrong one. There's one love above all others 
 one 'as to 'earken to, I reckon. Us may shove 'n 
 off, but to the las' 'e comes back like a tired chil' 
 to the mother's breas' — ain't that so ? " 
 
 " What do you know about love ? " he answered. 
 
 " What does a woman know about love ? " she 
 asked. "I reckon *er was born wi' the alphabet 
 o't, an' there's a plenty for spell it out." 
 
I40 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 '''' i»f 'ill' 
 
 " Cathie ! " he cried, " don't throw yourself away. 
 Vou could never be happy with one in your own 
 station. You are so immeasurably above them, 
 that marriage with one of them would only bring 
 you pain. They would not understand you, dear 
 — your life would be a wretched failure. Stay 
 single all your life. Better the occasional com- 
 panionship of some one who understands you — 
 in a friendly happy way — than even the absorbing 
 passion of a boor in your own class, — if they ever 
 have absorbing passions, which I greatly doubt." 
 
 She looked at him straight. 
 
 "There be men in my class can love as faith- 
 ful as men in your'n," she answered. 
 
 He uttered an exclamation of impatience. 
 
 "Faithful love!" he cried. "That is not what 
 a girl of your calibre waits. Understanding, friend- 
 ship, sympathy — these are what you want, Cathie, 
 and what in me you have. I will always be your 
 friend." 
 
 " H'm," she said ; and she paused a little. 
 
 "That does not satisfy you," and he uttered a 
 profound sigh, and rose, pacing up and down the 
 beaten path for a few minutes. 
 
 " I was trying to find out," he said, coming back 
 at last, " whether what I said was disinterested or 
 not. I thought perhaps I wanted too much for 
 myself — you as my friend, Elsie as my wife. But, 
 Cathie, the more I think, the more sure I feel that 
 if you marry in the class to which you belong it 
 
 \i 
 
WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 
 
 141 
 
 111 
 
 will be your moral ruin. You couldn't be happy! 
 Besides, it's sacrilege. It's wicked to think of a 
 rough ploughboy making love to you. It's horrible 
 to think of his coarse beery kisses, and his obtuse- 
 ness over all the hundred and one charms I love so 
 well. For, Cathie, I do love you, as I feel I should 
 have loved a sister, had I ever been so fortunate as 
 to possess one." 
 
 " H'm," she said again. " Well, I'm a-gwin 'ome." 
 
 There was a little grimness round her mouth. 
 
 " I've offended you now," he said. " What have I 
 said that you did not like ? " 
 
 "Well, I'll tell 'ee. i don't like so much talk. I 
 like more book-larnin'." 
 
 " I beg your pardon," he said stiffly; " I'd no idea 
 I was boring you." And he returned to the book. 
 But she laid her hand over the page, and looking 
 upwards at him, laughing, she asked, " Be angered ? " 
 
 " No, dear, not a bit," he answered. 
 
 Then he looked at the beautiful face with the 
 clear eyes dancing rays of swift soft intelligence 
 into his own ; at the lips parted. 
 
 He rose abruptly. 
 
 "I am going!" he said, thrusting the book into 
 his pocket; and a moment later he was half-way 
 down the hill. 
 
142 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 The next time Temple sat down on the hillside 
 to read, he was careful not to talk. 
 
 For three-quarters of an hour Cathie listened 
 intently. Then suddenly she said — 
 
 " *Ow 'ee do a-kep 'ee eyes clapped on thiccy 
 book ! " 
 
 " Well," he said, " last time you complained I 
 talked too much, and neglected the ' book- 
 larnin"!" 
 
 "Theer now! Look to thiccy, takin' of me off! 
 S'pose I was to tak' 'ee off.^" and she began to 
 mince her words. 
 
 " You must not," he said. " I love your Devon- 
 shire. I like you just as you are, Cathie." 
 
 "Theer b'ain't 'nough material for betterment, I 
 s'pose ? " 
 
 " There's plenty of material," he answered ; " but 
 the question is " 
 
 He threw himself backwards on the grass, with 
 his hands behind his head, and looked upwards at 
 the blue sky. 
 
WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 
 
 143 
 
 "The question is " he repeated. 
 
 "Ees?" ^ 
 
 "Well, the question really is, Will this 'better- 
 ment,' as you call it, bringj you happiness? Is 
 it wise? I'm beginning to be afraid, Cathie, this 
 friendship of ours is a mistake." 
 
 He did not dare look at her as he said this. 
 
 " So be I," she answered promptly. " I be 
 mortal zick o't." 
 
 He sat up straight with astonishment. 
 
 " You are sick of it ! " he exclaimed. 
 
 " Ees. B'ain't 'ee ? " 
 
 "No," he answered, picking at the grass and 
 throwing the blades away, " I'm not." 
 
 "Well, why be it a mistake, then?" she asked, 
 after a pause. 
 
 " Oh ! Well, of course all this reading puts new 
 thoughts into your head — thoughts above the 
 people with whom you are thrown — people of 
 your own class. You're not, for instance, so satis- 
 fied with — Bill — isn't that his name? — as you 
 were?" 
 
 " Ees, I be. An't mad' a 'apporth o' differ'nce." 
 
 " Then I am afraid our reading hasn't improved 
 you much," he said drily. 
 
 "An't mad' a speck o' differ'nce," she repeated 
 stolidly — "not a speck. I always thought un fit 
 for a zaney ; an' I think so same's ever ! " 
 
 "You always had feelings above your station, 
 you mean ? " 
 
 *rV\ 
 
m> 
 
 . 
 
 I 
 
 ^ 
 
 m 
 
 I'll 3'l 
 
 i . i 
 
 t I '31 ill 
 
 II if 
 
 144 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 " I mean what I say," she answered. " What 
 you mean when you alter't up — that's your 
 business, not mine." 
 
 " I believe you're right," he said slowly. " I 
 believe you were born with these aspirations. It 
 isn't," he continued, looking away, "as if I put 
 them into your head." 
 
 " Bless 'ee life, no ! You an't put nothin' theer." 
 
 "At the same time, in the end ^ musi make 
 you less fitted for the station to which you 
 belong." 
 
 She raised her chin a little. 
 
 " I can b'long to what station I've a mind for," 
 she answered. " If I eddycate meself, I can b'long 
 to betterment volk." 
 
 "Oh, my dear girl, you can't!" he answered. 
 " Don't be so absurd. You were born a rough 
 farmer's daughter, and you'll stay a rough farmer's 
 daughter." 
 
 She flushed. 
 
 He was sorry. 
 
 "I mean," he said, "you can't, don't you know? 
 Well, of course blood does these things, not 
 education." 
 
 She rose angrily from her seat in the grass. 
 
 "I telled 'ee I was mortal zick of 'ee — an' I 
 be ! " she said, as she turned towards the farm. 
 
 "You're taking my meaning quite wrongly," he 
 said, springing after her. "Cathie!" 
 
 But she walked on. 
 

 WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 
 
 » 
 
 145 
 
 "Oh, well, I can't help it," he said to himself, 
 turning back. "It's better so." 
 
 The next minute he was at her sidt. 
 
 "Cathie, don't go away like this!" 
 
 "Well, I'll ask o' 'ee one thing," she said. "Be 
 there anything wrong o' me, savin' eddycation ? " 
 
 He thought a moment. He wanted to be quite 
 candid. At last he said — 
 
 "No— I don't know that there is." 
 
 A flash of triumph shot from her dark eyes. 
 
 "Will you come back and let me read some 
 more to you?" he said, quite humbJy. 
 
 And they went back together. 
 
 > I 
 
1 
 
 
 
 Wf 
 
 146 
 
 ! 
 
 i 
 
 i f 
 
 l!l#! 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 MlAH was getting tired of waiting and watching, 
 for nothing seemed to come of it. If he could 
 only hear what they spoke about during those 
 stolen interviews! Of course it was all courting, 
 and the book was just a "turn off." Suppose 
 they were already married ? Why, then all his 
 waiting and watching were for nothing. 
 
 "They b'ain't marr'ed, that's for zartain zure," 
 he said to himself one day. "Nextest time I 
 zees un smellin' round 'ere, I'll get zo's I 'ear 
 zome'at — now I warrant I will ! " 
 
 Accordingly, one day he made a pretence of 
 going off with Grandfer to market ; but, as soon 
 as the cart had jogged out of sight, he got down, 
 and crept back, and hid himself where he could 
 get a good view of the river. What made the 
 meetings easier to detect was that they were 
 always made when the tide was in. 
 
 He was rewarded, after half an hour's waiting, 
 by seeing the bout coming across. He shifted 
 
 ;:; !' 
 
WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 
 
 147 
 
 his position then, and got where he could see into 
 the yard. 
 
 Presently Temple entered. Miah gnashed his 
 teeth when he saw how he was no stranger to the 
 sheep-dog, who came leisurely forward and licked 
 his hand. There must, then, have been many 
 more meetings than he knew of. 
 
 "Well, 'eeVe a-choosed a nice time vor mak' a 
 visit, when all the men volk be out a-brooard ! " he 
 heard Cathie say. 
 
 " All the better that, isn't it ? " 
 
 "All the better be't, when I've got varm an' 'ouse 
 both to onct vor zee after ? " 
 
 Temple smiled. 
 
 "I have seen you before under similar circum- 
 stances," he answered, "and it always struck me 
 you left house and farm to see after itself" 
 
 She looked thoughtful for a moment. 
 
 " The women volk sloppy about zo ; 'pears to me 
 they b'ain't niver zatisfied, 'vore they watch the 
 kettle boil, an' stan' over bread-pan vor zee the 
 doughey rise. Now theers 'underds o' work does 
 all zo well whether you'm by or no. Zend 'ee 
 thoughts ahead o' 'ee, an' work's a-done wi' clap o' 
 vingers ! " 
 
 "Altogether, you've reduced your day's work to 
 a science." 
 
 She frowned a little. 
 
 " That's right," she said, " mak' it up zo 1 can't 
 
 vollow of 'ee. Then 'ee'm zatisfied. Oh, what a 
 
; 
 
 : 
 
 5 ■ ,» 1 
 
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 ■:m1; 
 
 
 f 
 
 ! 
 
 ■m 
 
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 t^ 
 
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 f. 
 
 
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 ^^1 
 
 
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 148 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 thing 'tis I can't vollow the speech o* a plain- 
 minded gent like you be ! " she cried, with sudden 
 passion. " Oh, if I could lam ! if I could lam ! " 
 
 Then they both passed out of earshot. 
 
 That night, as Miah sat in the kitchen waiting for 
 Grandfer, who was late in returning, his pent-up 
 impatience could endure no longer. 
 
 " You'm a middlin' me-aid," he opened fire with. 
 
 Cathie took not the faintest notice. 
 
 "S'pose I was to tell 'ee zome'at 'ee didn't 
 know } " 
 
 " 'Ee might try," responded Cathie. 
 
 Then he changed his tone. 
 
 " Cathie, ma-deear, I be mortal vond o' 'ee ! " 
 
 She wheeled round upon him. 
 
 " I've a - telled 'ee afore," she retorted angrily, 
 " vor 'old 'ee ol' blatherin' tongue. You ol' dustal, 
 you!" 
 
 "Ees, I've 'eld it. But I can blather an' bring 
 shame on 'ee if I choose. When 'ee go walkin' out 
 'long o* spindle-shanked gent, I s'pose ee've a notion 
 nobody don't obsarve 'ee ? " 
 
 For a moment the blood seemed to freeze within 
 her. She only showed she had heard by a curious 
 stillness. Then recovering, she turned to him with 
 a light laugh — 
 
 " Mortal sharp 'ee think 'eeself, don't 'ee ? 'Tain't 
 no matter to me who zees un." 
 
 " What if I tell Grandfer ? " sneered Miah. 
 
 " I can spare 'ee the trouble an' tell un myself." 
 
 : 
 
WHKN THE DAY BREAKS. 
 
 149 
 
 Miah was taken aback. 
 
 " A likely tale." 
 
 " I will, then," said Cathie. " So soon as 'e comes 
 in I'll teH'n." 
 
 "Oh, I dunno as 'ow I'd do that," said Miah. But 
 he was so annoyed to find she cared very little, and 
 that what he thought was a trump card was no 
 trump card at all, that he slouched out to The Swan, 
 where he got thoroughly drunk. 
 
 "'Er be zo slipp'ry as a eel, thiccy me-aid," he 
 muttered to himself. 
 
 I 
 
 I! 
 
150 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 I '^ 
 
 ii 
 
 m 
 
 Tempi E was no longer now in a desperate hurry to 
 leave Upcott Hall. He remained so long as he felt 
 himself welcome. The old ennui had given place to 
 pleasurable anticipation. He never knew how his 
 interview with Cathie would end : whether they 
 would quarrel, whether they would leave each other 
 with that exhilarating sense of donne camaraderie, 
 whether it would all be unsatisfactory or utterly 
 delightful. 
 
 When he left Upcott Hall he no longer dreaded 
 the letter that would summon him back. On the 
 contrary, if it were long delayed he watched for it 
 anxiously. The tables truly had been turned. 
 
 One afternoon in mid - May Temple, having 
 gathered from the fact that for two days Lord 
 Frobisher had not requested to see him his presence 
 at Upcott Hall was no longer desired, rowed himself 
 across the river to bid good-bye to Cathie. 
 
 It was one of those azure spring days when the 
 soul of the season seems gathered into half-a-dozen 
 hours. The daisies starred the hillside, and over the 
 
 ' 
 
WHEN TIIK DAY HUKAKS. 
 
 151 
 
 mound made by the roots of a fallen tree the l.imbs 
 frisked and gambolled. 
 
 He ascended the hill and hung a white signal 
 from the farthest elm — Judas, the last of the 
 "apostles," Then he walked towards the wood, 
 and seating himself on a fragrant bank of primroses 
 and violets, waited for Cathie. 
 
 She was not long. She came with a sweet gaiety 
 on her face. The sheep-dog gambolled at her heels. 
 
 The moment her eye met Temple's she asked — 
 
 " What be the matter wi' 'ee ? " 
 
 " Nothing," he answered. 
 
 She looked at him keenly for a moment. 
 
 "Well," she said, "an' what 've 'ee got for read 
 to-day? Us 'ave a- finished t'other book, 'ee know." 
 
 "I know we have,' said Temple, "and I'm afraid 
 it's hardly worth while to begin another." 
 
 " Can't 'ee bide long ? " 
 
 " Not very. Besides, I am going to-morrow ; and, 
 of course, I never know for how long it will be." 
 
 " Ah 1 " 
 
 "You would like me to leave you some books? 
 I've brought some, and I shall catechise you well 
 when I come back." 
 
 " What be un about ? Just 'ee read a line or 
 two." 
 
 He opened one of the books and began reading. 
 But it was no use ; he could not fix his attention. 
 He threw the book aside. 
 
 " What is the use reading," he cried, with sudden 
 
 fii , 
 
I 
 
 152 
 
 ^cli 
 
 'postlp: farm. 
 
 iicmcncc, " when one's heart is writing a life's 
 history? At least, of course I don't mean that," 
 he added; "but I'm just one of those fellows who 
 get used to certain people, and then I hate parting 
 with them. I am like a child with a favourite toy 
 — homesick without it." 
 
 He looked across at her with half-smiling candour 
 that was not without effort. 
 
 She answered the look with one of grave interest, 
 almost as a large intelligent dog might watch a 
 buzzing insect. 
 
 " Life comes cruel 'ard to *ee, don't it? " she asked. 
 " Seems to me as if 'e often wanted for do zome'at 
 powerful good, an' couldn't. Ain't that so ? " 
 
 " I'm afraid it is." 
 
 "Seems to me," she continued, "'e ofti-ii see a 
 path straight f head o' 'te, an' ce'in minded for tak' 
 un, an' 'ee can't." 
 
 Was she going to end by being the teacher and 
 he the learner ? 
 
 " That is true," he answered, accepting the situation 
 — " too true — miserably true I " 
 
 " Well, 'ee mus' tak' it ! " she said with decision. 
 
 " Ah, but it's so hard ! " he answered. " For in- 
 st.iUce, it would be so hard to say good bye to you 
 now, under this cloudless sky and bright sunshine, 
 and know I should never s^.e you again, Cathie." 
 
 'So 'twould! an' wouldn' 'ave no manner o' 
 meanin* nether ! " 
 
 " It would have more meaning than you perhaps 
 
WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 
 
 153 
 
 ?r o 
 
 rhaps 
 
 arc aware of. Man is so constituted that he cannot 
 indulge in a really supreme friendship with any 
 woman saving the one he intends to make his 
 wife." 
 
 " No ? " she said, and she looked him straight in 
 the eyes. 
 
 " I've been rather foolish altogether," he continued. 
 " I think our friendship has been a distinct mistake. 
 For instance, now I have succeeded in teaching you 
 a good deal — for you've been an apt pupil — but are 
 you any the happier for it } " 
 
 " That be I ! " she answered heartily. 
 
 " Ah, well," he said, rising, " I don't know that it 
 has been very wise." 
 
 She rose too. 
 
 " These are the books," he said ; " and if I do not 
 come to claim them, they are yours." 
 
 She took them without speaking. 
 
 " Good-bye," he said. " I do not think I shall 
 come again, Cathie." 
 
 " Good-bye," she answered, and passed on. 
 
 " Stop ! let me carry them along the hillside for 
 you." 
 
 He took the bundle of books, and they walked 
 to the farm gate without speaking. Then she 
 motioned him to put the books down, and leaning 
 her back against the rough stone wall, she said — 
 
 " So 'ee b'ain't comin' back no more ^ " 
 
 He hesitated. 
 
 "Well," he said slowly, "I think not." 
 

 
 ; 5' i: 
 
 If I 
 
 : i 
 
 Ilk i 
 
 154 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 " I s'pose 'ee think 'tis bes'?" 
 
 "Yes," he said, " I think it best." 
 
 She looked at hinri with a half-mocking smile ; 
 then, nodding her head to him, she passed through 
 the farm gate. 
 
 " Stop ! " he cried for the second time ; " I have an 
 idea. Miss Clavers will be in this neighbourhood 
 to-morrow. You know, Miss Clavers is the young 
 lady I admire so much — the one I hope some day to 
 make my wife. Shall I bring her up to see you } " 
 
 A dangerous light flashed in the girl's eye, 
 and she wheeled round upon him. But her mood 
 suddenly changed. 
 
 " Ay, do 'ee," she said, in her very softest accents. 
 
 Temple was charmed. What a harmless aspect it 
 gave the whole affair ! The thought of introducing 
 his hoped - for bride to this wild young creature 
 made the ground beneath his feet seem firm and 
 solid rock. 
 
 " I will ! " he cried. " Would you really like to 
 see her.?" 
 
 " I reckon I could do wi'out,** she answered. 
 " Howsomever, I reckon as *ow 'er can't. Theer's a 
 sight o' volk as come for clap eyes on me sinth the 
 artist man a-painted my pictur." 
 
 " What artist man ? " cried Temple. 
 
 " I dunno what 'e was a-called." 
 
 " How dared you let him ! " cried Temple, forget- 
 ting himself. He felt furious. "You're not to do 
 these things, do you hear.*" 
 
WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 
 
 155 
 
 She dropped a demure curtsey. 
 
 "That's what I was a-Iarned to do when I was 
 
 little maid," she said, .urning up her apron and 
 
 fingering the corner with mock nervousness « To 
 
 mak' a curtsey to the gentry an' zay, ' Ecs, sir,' an' 
 
 No, ma am,'— an' go 'way arter, an' do all as I was 
 
 a mind to. Bless 'ee. they b'laved it all ! Thiccy 
 
 curtsey pleases mun won'erful." 
 
 " You want to evade what I im saying," said 
 Temple, on whose face her mockery brought no 
 smile. ''Won't you tell me who this artist was.?" 
 His tone had changed. 
 
 "I couldn' tell 'ee what 'e was a -called," said 
 Cathie, " for I dunno. I know 'e was fine an' tall 
 an' straight, an' the pictur was for Lunnon. That's 
 all I know about un. 'E never spoke, bless your 
 lire !- e was won'erful kind o' closed up like. When 
 pictur was a-finished 'e give me sovereign, an' that's 
 the last I ever seed o' un." 
 
 "Is this the whole truth, Cathie .?" 
 
 She was on the point of being indignant and 
 angry, but when she met his eyes her own dropped 
 
 "I never told 'ee no lie since I knowed 'ee first" 
 she said. * 
 
 There was a touch of emotion in the rich full 
 tones of her voice, and on her half-averted face, with 
 the downcast eyes. 
 
 "Cathie, I have told you before, and I tell you 
 again," he said, with a strange drawn look on his 
 tace, ''you are dear to mc-I hold you as a friend 
 

 lii 
 
 II 
 
 ijiii 
 
 
 
 156 
 
 POSTLE FARM. 
 
 I could not bear- 
 
 -" he stopped ; his voice 
 trembled ; he was amazed, confused, uncertain. 
 
 "Cathie," he said, "whatever the future brings, 
 always remember my intentions towards you were 
 sincere " 
 
 The girl drew in her breath. One or two emotions 
 crossed her beautiful face. Then, just as Grand fer's 
 shuffling step came over the yard, she cried beneath 
 her breath — 
 
 "Ah, but I trust 'ee!" and stretched out her 
 hands to him. 
 
 He took them impulsively between his own, and, 
 before he knew it, he had raised them to his lips. 
 
 \'i 1 
 
 
«57 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 "Who was't 'ee was a-tellin' wi', ma-deear?" asked 
 Grandfer, as Cathie came over the yard with a 
 wonderfully soft light on her face. 
 
 "I dunno what 'e be a-called," she answered. 
 
 "Reel genelman-I zeed thiccy," said Grandfer, 
 pickmg up the pigs' bucket and pouring the wash 
 imo the troughs. "'Ee might o' offered un a glass 
 o m Ik. Us a'n't much, but what us Ve a-got volks 
 is welcome to." 
 
 " I give un some'at more sperrety nor that " said 
 Cathie to herself as she entered the kitchen': and 
 she laughed softly. 
 
 That hand-clasp made an impression on Temple 
 Cathie's was a wonderfully stn.ng and firm clasp • 
 and yet it could be clinging too. Had there only' 
 been strength in it, it would not have suited Temple 
 so well, for he had by no means too much strength 
 l^iniself, and a man does not care to own a woman is 
 possessed with a superabundance of a manly virtue 
 he feels himself a little lacking in. Cathie's clasp 
 
1 
 
 ' 
 
 k 
 
 If 
 
 ill' 
 
 158 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 had been clinging too, and this restored his self- 
 esteem, for it showed there was something in him 
 to lean on, after all. 
 
 It must not be imagined for a moment that 
 Temple put this into clear thought as he strode 
 down the hill. In the first warmth of our emotions 
 we do not care to analyse them. That comes later 
 on, when the first tender effulgence has faded. To 
 do it at first would be like taking a hammer to 
 break the stone of a peach just as we are enjoying 
 its bloom and its fragrance. When we have eaten 
 the peach, then we come quite naturally to the 
 kernel. Temple postponed eating the peach, but 
 he continued to enjoy the bloom and the fragrance. 
 
 He had often spoken to Elsie about Cathie ; and 
 he spoke again now, when he met Elsie after an 
 absence of several months, and with the memory 
 of Cathie's hands in his still very warm within him. 
 
 "Tell me more about her," said Elsie, when he 
 paused. 
 
 They were sitting in the drawing-room of the 
 hotel at which the Clavers were staying. The 
 scent of violets came softly through the open 
 window. The day was relaxing ; to Temple it 
 was even oppressive. 
 
 "Well," he said, " I don't know that there is much 
 more to tell. Only, I always feel I want to tell you 
 all about her. It is so horribly sad. What is one 
 to do? What can one do?" 
 
 " Could she not be educated ? " 
 
 
WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 
 
 159 
 
 much 
 11 you 
 
 is one 
 
 Temple shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " After ail, what does that do for her ? It only 
 places her above her station. That is the worst of 
 her — she is so miserably above her station. The 
 outlook for her is utterly hopeless." 
 
 Elsie thought for a moment. 
 
 " I really think," she said, " it is one of those cases 
 which is better left alone." 
 
 " I daresay you are right," said Temple. 
 
 " Don't you think so yourself ? " 
 
 " Don't ask me ! " he said, rising and beginning to 
 pace the room. " I can't say ! I don't know ! It's 
 horrible ; and if inevitable, still more horrible. How- 
 ever," he continued, flinging himself on to the sofa 
 beside her, "why should I trouble you with it? 
 Do you know, it is four months since I saw you 
 last." 
 
 "Is it so long?" said Elsie, though she knew 
 quite well it was four months and three days. 
 
 "As to education," he continued, "she can read 
 and write, of course, and she thoroughly enjoys 
 Shakespeare." 
 
 A very distinct change came over Elsie's face. 
 Temple was tracing the pattern of the carpet with 
 the point of his toe, and did not observe it. 
 
 " You see a great deal of her ? " 
 
 " Oh yes — whenever I can. I've taught her lots 
 of things. No man ever had an apter pupil. Why, 
 she actually " 
 
 He stopped short. After all, what girl would 
 
 . 
 
< !' 
 
 i} 
 
 i6o 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 like the man who was paying attention to her to 
 have the name of another girl constantly on his 
 lips ? What was coming over him ? What would 
 the end of it all be ? 
 
 In vain that night Elsie assured herself it was 
 no more than a kindly interest Temple took 
 in poor crazy Cathie. She had to admit at last, 
 with tears of shame, that she did not like it, and 
 the last words poor Elsie uttered that night were — 
 
 " I hate her ! I hate her ! and I hate his being 
 with her ! Oh, I wish, if he loves me, he would tell 
 me so ! Why does he keep delaying ? Surely, 
 surely he must know I love him too?" 
 
I6i 
 
 ■;'l 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 It was impossible for Ten.ple not to notice a con- 
 stramt m Elsie's manner the following morning 
 when he rode over to see her. He therefore a^ 
 once made the suggestion he had already made 
 to Cathie. Elsie's face lightened 
 
 «»-7x'^"^ '''°"''' '"^^ ^""' °P'"'°" °f the girl " 
 
 mi Jr' ; " ^'^ '^ ' '""°"^ '^-"P-- ""' I think 
 I might venture to take you in under pretext of 
 
 seemg the cows milked-or something i„ that way 
 You need not, of course, seem to observe her- be 
 mterested in the farming occupations." 
 "Madge Montague is going to take up farming." 
 
 Whatever will she take up next ? " 
 "She has left that sweet little cottage-fancy i- 
 or at least she is going to leave .^ : but I interrupted 
 you-what were you sayingP Oh yes, about 'his 
 g.r.. I should very much like to see her. Will you 
 take me? You say she is beautiful ? " 
 
 "Did I say she was beautiful? Yes, I supnose 
 she would be generally considered so." 
 "Don't you consider her so.>" 
 
 X 
 
! i:i!i 
 
 
 162 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 ! I ;:■; 
 
 " Well, I've got so used to her face — I mean to say 
 — not used to it, of course : but, honestly, I forget 
 what my first impressions were." 
 
 " Well, if you will take me to see her, I will tell 
 you what my first impressions are, shall I ? " 
 
 " I wish you would." 
 
 So in the afternoon, the tide suiting, Temple 
 rowed Elsie up from Upcott, and they walked to- 
 gether up the grassy hill that led to 'Postle Farm. 
 
 They proceeded to the door of the dwelling-room 
 together. Temple rapped on it with his stick. 
 
 " Good afternoon," he said, in a fine offhand tone. 
 " I have brought this lady to see the cowshed and 
 the dairy, and so on, if you would be so good as to 
 show them to us." 
 
 There was absolute silence. Back in the dark 
 half of the kitchen, out of Elsie's view, though well 
 within Temple's anxious range, Cathie stood defiant 
 and stubborn. Very slowly she came forward, 
 curiosity having got the better of her. She longed 
 to see the woman of Temple's choice ; angry emo- 
 tions feared to find her more beautiful than herself. 
 
 She came forward scowling, and stood, at last, 
 framed in the dark doorway, and for a background 
 the whitewashed wall. 
 
 She stood a moment haughtily regarding the 
 intruders. 
 
 " This is Miss Claver^," said Temple, beginning 
 to feel uncomfortable. 
 
 " 'Er 'ee'm gwin for marry .-• " inquired Cathie. 
 
WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 
 
 163 
 
 "We can't always have things exactly as we 
 wish," said Temple, not daring to look at Elsie, 
 and wishing with all his soul he had not hazarded 
 this visit. 
 
 To his intense relief he saw the expression of 
 Cathie's face change slowly. It was not a change 
 complimentary to his bride - elect ; and he pres- 
 ently divined this. Cathie's expressive face, as 
 she turned to him, said as plainly as words 
 could — 
 
 " Think a sight of her, do you } Dress me in 
 those clothes of hers, and — but there, she isn't 
 worth thinking about ! " Aloud she said demurely, 
 " Please to come this way ! " 
 
 She led the way to the shippon. It was ready 
 for the cows : fresh straw scattered lightly for 
 bedding ; hay .in the manger for food. On each 
 pine post hung the iron chains to be fastened 
 severally as necklaces round each fair lady's neck. 
 They were bright as steel with the friction against 
 the soft hairy skins of the animals, as they tossed up 
 their horned heads to draw down the fragrant hay. 
 Just where the nngs ran on the pine posts the red- 
 brown bark was rubbed off, and the plain deal shone 
 out as if a french-polisher had been at work. 
 
 " How bright you keep the chains ! " said Elsie, 
 wishing to be appreciative, but strongly repulsed 
 by the girl's powerful personality. 
 
 " Yes, miss, I does," said Cathie wickedly. 
 "Tak's a sight o' time.' 
 
x64 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 li'; 
 
 \ I 
 
 » 
 
 Temple wheeled round on her. He could have 
 shaken her for making fun of his intended bride. 
 But Cathie did not appear aware of his angry 
 gaze. She only blinked mildly and meekly at 
 Elsie, who stood holding up her dainty skirts and 
 trying to evince an interest in farming occupa- 
 tions. 
 
 " I'm zure,** continued Cathie, using the com- 
 plaining tone of voice she always recollected as 
 a child hearing from Mrs Mollard — " Fm zure 
 'gainst I be up mornin's an' veeded the pigs, an' 
 milked the cows, an' let the c. .ies zuck, an' 
 tended the poultry, an' cookjd the breaksus, an' 
 washed o* Mondays, an' baked o* Fridays, an' 
 carr'ed the men their nammock, an' mad' the 
 butter, an' scoured the crocks, an' cleaned up 'ouse 
 a bit, an' done my bit needlework, an' one thing 
 an' 'nother, I be mos* dead 'gainst night-time comes 
 along. 'Tis cruel 'ard work for a poor maid, all 
 lonesome like — an' nothin', as may say, comin' in 
 for't ne'ther!" 
 
 At the commencement of this whining oration 
 Temple stared at Cathie in amazement. Doubt 
 and perplexity succeeded — the recollection that 
 she was called crazy — the dim wonder whether 
 she really was. Then his impulse was to stop 
 her peremptorily, but he felt he should get the 
 worst of this. He became downright furious as 
 he recognised she was making game of them both ; 
 but the next moment he was seized with an 
 
 i hA 
 
WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 
 
 165 
 
 at 
 er 
 
 as 
 in 
 
 irresistible desire to laugh. He moved away ; he 
 could not keep his features straight. 
 
 He heard Elsie saying good -afternoon, so he 
 turned back to join them. He saw her slip a 
 coin into Cathie's hand. He expected to see it 
 come whizzing back in her face ; instead he saw 
 Cathie stooping to look on the ground. 
 
 "I thought mebbe," she said, "theer might be 
 another sexpence as 'ad rolled in the muck ! " 
 
 Elsie positively blushed with shcme over Cathie's 
 terrible rapacity. 
 
 " Oh ! " she cried to Temple as soon as they were 
 out of earshot, "she's something too dreadful! 
 She's nothing but a complete humbug ! I am 
 sure of it. It's only money she wants, not learning." 
 
 "But she isn't like that, really," said Temple, 
 beginning to burst with laughter ; and then, mad 
 with himself, he turned and shook his fist in the 
 direction of the farmyard. "She's only — well 
 
 He stopped ; he could not possibly explain. If 
 he explained, the entente would seem unpleasantly 
 familiar. 
 
 "You are too good to her," said Elsie. "You 
 are entirely deceived in her, I feel quite sure. 
 Now to me, really, she is as clear as glass. I 
 can read right through her." 
 
 Temple felt a sudden irritation towards Elsie 
 which frightened him. 
 
 " Oh, she's uncanny," he said. " Don't let's speak 
 of her any more." 
 
ik }' 
 
 ( ; 
 
 '"', 
 
 1 66 
 
 'roSTLi: I'AKM. 
 
 Elsie laughed softly ; but she said no more. 
 Uncanny was the very last epithet she would have 
 applied to Cathie. 
 
 When they had got into the boat, and the last 
 of 'Postle Farm and Upcott Hall had disappeared 
 round the bend of the river, she said — 
 
 •' I have so much enjoyed this little trip. 1 
 know you feel disappointed about the girl — forgive 
 me my candour ; but, do you know, I feel sure — 
 I do indeed — that she is quite an impostor. Some- 
 how I saw it all quite clearly. I felt it from the 
 first moment she spoke." 
 
 Temple's lips twitched ; then he frowned. He 
 would have given worlds to get away from Elsie 
 just then. He was dissatisfied with the whole 
 business. Elsie had shown to disadvantage ; Cathie 
 had been maddening ; he himself was in a false 
 position, while Elsie was placed in an unfair one. 
 He would never go back to Cathie after this — he 
 was too angry with her. 
 
 11 
 
ore. 
 ave 
 
 last 
 I red 
 
 167 
 
 1 
 
 pve 
 
 e — 
 me- 
 the 
 
 He 
 
 Isie 
 lole 
 thie 
 alse 
 3ne. 
 -he 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 Yet the next morning:, when he left the Clavers 
 instead of taking his ticket to the north, as he' 
 had intended, he took a ticket back to Upcott. 
 He was so angry with Cathie that he felt he 
 could not rest till he had it out with her. 
 
 He climbed the hill late that evening as the 
 sun was setting. Already the base of the hill and 
 the r:ver were in shadow. He paused at the 
 farmyard gate, and looked Jovn. The tide was 
 out; a group of seaguL . r^.tec on the purple 
 sand of the bend bcloN the ' ^all. The little 
 town of Upcott was .lih :.:,.. .i:tyi against the sky 
 veiled in a lavender haze, out of which the square' 
 church tower and the irregular roofs of the houses 
 climbing up the hill stood dark and distinct 
 The beauty and the peace of it all entered into 
 his soul. 
 
 " Shoosha-kee ! shoosha-kee !" 
 
 The music of the farmyard pump made Temple 
 turn h.s head rapidly. As he expected, Cathie 
 was there. The sleeves of her cotton blouse were 
 
 i ;; 
 
' 
 
 4:.!!^ 
 
 ill I 
 
 m 
 
 1 68 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 rolled up above her elbows. She was standing 
 with her back towards him. 
 
 He came nearer. The sparkling water streamed 
 into the Iar.t bucket and overflowed. Cathie stooped 
 to cany her burden across the yard. As she walked, 
 her carriage w?j erect, but her head was bent to keep 
 out the level rays of the sun from her eyes. The 
 water in the buckets sluiced from side to side, falling 
 in dimples and rising in miniature crests ; and at 
 every step a little wave washed over, now from one 
 bucket, now from the other, leaving an avenue of 
 glistening stars in her wake. 
 
 When within a yard of him, she put down the 
 buckets with a clatter and looked at him. He 
 knew then she had seen him from the first. 
 
 With a little comic twitching of the lips, she 
 said — 
 
 " I thought 'ee said 'ee wasn't gwin for come no 
 more ! " 
 
 •' My only reason for coming now," said Temple, 
 severely, "is to tell you you had no business what- 
 ever to behave as you did yesterday. It put me 
 in a false position, and it was unfair to my — to 
 Miss Clavers." 
 
 "Oh, go 'long!" s,he answered angrily. "01* 
 muzzle-pate you be ! " 
 
 She took up the buckets again and passed into 
 the house. 
 
 Now that he had made her angry, he wished he 
 had not. After all, an Englishman's house is his 
 
WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 
 
 169 
 
 the 
 He 
 
 she 
 
 into 
 
 Id he 
 his 
 
 castle, and he had invaded hers. He leant against 
 the door ; a sense of trouble was upon him. 
 
 Suddenly he asked — 
 
 "What did you do with the sixpence?" 
 
 Mischief flashed from her eye. Pausing in her 
 task of laying the evening meal, she leaned hei 
 hands on the table, and bending towards him, 
 whispered — 
 
 " He's over 'gainst the shippon door, stuck in 
 putty." 
 
 A delightful sense of mutual amusement stirred 
 Temple, but he controlled it. It was hideous for 
 them to laugh together over Elsie. 
 
 The girl watched him closely. Now that he was 
 not observing her, there was even a little timidity in 
 her mien. A sense that she was fighting at that 
 moment for all her life was worth, caused her breath 
 to come unevenly. If only he would look up and 
 join her laugh ! 
 
 He looked up, but his eyes were grave. 
 
 "I wanted her to appreciate you," he said. 
 " Why did you make a fool of me ? " 
 
 " Not o' you," she said ; and for the first time in 
 all their intercourse the heart she had sought to 
 imprison so closely leapt into her voice, and shone 
 for one moment in her eyes. 
 
 He caught her hands in his. It was as if for one 
 brief instant they rocked together over a yawning 
 chasm. The next moment Cathie recovered her 
 balance. Drawing her hands away, and still with 
 
170 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 a suspicion of tenderness in lier beautiful voice, she 
 said — 
 
 " 'Ee wouldn' deny me a bit o' frolic ? " 
 
 The words that he would deny her nothing in all 
 the wide world leapt to Temple's lips. With an 
 effort he controlled them. 
 
 "Cathie, there is a bond between us," he said, 
 while a whiteness settled on his face, — "a bond 
 that I can't altogether define ; but it is a bond, and a 
 strong one, and I like you to seem perfect to others 
 as you seem to me ; and, in short, when I bring 
 visitors to see you, you shouldn't make fun of 
 them." 
 
 She moved away. 
 
 "Shall I tell 'ee 'ow to stop it?" she asked, 
 pausing with a large pan of scalded milk at the 
 farther door. 
 
 " How ? " he asked. 
 
 " Don't bring no more," she answered, passing out 
 of sight. 
 
 She left a laugh behind her that echoed softly 
 along the oak beams of the kitchen ceiling. 
 Temple remained waiting for her return, but she 
 did not come back. 
 
 " Cathie ! " he called at last, " I am going." 
 
 There was no answer. 
 
 "I have to cat ■: a train," he called. 
 
 Silence still. 
 
 He rapped twice at the farther door, and peeped 
 in at the diiry. So cool and quiet it looked, with 
 
all 
 an 
 
 WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. i;i 
 
 its open window and half-closed shutter, and tiic 
 green bank with pink ragged-robins just beyond. 
 
 " Cathie ! " he called again ; but his voice echoed 
 into silence. 
 
 He had the sense that she was somewhere at 
 hand; but not a sound came to him. 
 
 " Good-bye, dear," he said at last ; and he kissed 
 his hand to the milk-pans and passed out. 
 
172 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV, 
 
 I I 
 
 I! > 
 
 ■M'"' 
 
 fffl 
 
 1 
 
 m 
 
 1 '! 
 
 ' ' 'I 
 
 Thunder-clouds had been threatening all day, 
 making the task of saving the hay an anxious 
 one. Though the sun appeared only at compara- 
 tively rare intervals, the breeze was fresh and 
 strong, and the hay made with a rapidity that 
 surprised even Grandfer, in spite of his experience 
 running back over threescore years. 
 
 " I never zeed 'ay mak' quicker," he cried, as they 
 sat for a brief spell under the hedge to take their 
 mid-day meal, " Geeve's jus' a hummock o' bread 
 an' a jug o' zyder, ma-deear," he added, turning to 
 Cathie. " I mind one zummer us cut an' scatified 
 an' carr'ed the vour-acre vield in dree days — that 
 was the quickest I can mind. But that year 
 was differ'nt ; e'd a-been a dry year. Now this 
 year the grass be amazin' zappy, an' 'twas zo 
 wet as dung when us scatified 'ere yester mornin' ; 
 warn't it now, Bill ? An' 'ere to-day 'tis vit vor 
 car'y. Eef the thunder - clouds '11 but kape off, 
 us'll be zo right as rain, an' get mun stacked vor 
 nightvall. 'Tis a voxy day, tho' ; but I prn.y the 
 
WHEN THE DAY BREAKS, 
 
 ^71 
 
 or 
 
 Loord to kape it off a bit : all these 'ere labour 
 drowcd away mak's a cruel day o't. When I 
 was young, a bit o' labour morc'n less mad' no 
 manner o' differ'nce like ; an' now, 'pon my zoul, 
 'tis every pitchvoorkfuU begrudged like ! " 
 
 " Why don't 'ee eat," grumbled Miah. " 'Ee a'n't 
 got no tathe, an' it takks 'ee longer nor mos' volk, 
 an' these 'ere jibber-jaw leaves 'ee 'underds behind 
 'and." 
 
 Grandfer swallowed something besides his cider 
 before he murmured — 
 
 " Ees, ees ; ees, ees ! " and he did not speak 
 again. 
 
 When evening fell the sun made a sudden 
 warmth upon the landscape. It tinted the thunder- 
 clouds into roses, and shone through a golden haze 
 upon the river. It wrapped the shorn fields and 
 the irregular haycocks, the carts, the labouring 
 men, and, above all, the girl, in a beautiful soft 
 golden radiance — half veiled, like a drc.im almost 
 forgotten when the sleeper wakes, but exquisite 
 still. The sound of the men's voices came clearly 
 *n the great stillness, for the wind had suddenly 
 died away. The clinking of the harness, the 
 rumbling of the carts, the straining effort of the 
 horses as they mounted the hill, each and every 
 sound, came clearly to Temple as he rowed on 
 the river, ♦irying to govern thoughts that would 
 not be governed — to rule actions that would not 
 be ruled. 
 
ill) 
 
 174 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 Si 
 
 Then he gave it up, and, flinging the anchor on 
 to the bank, leapt from the boat and mounted 
 the hill. 
 
 He was down at the Hall after an absence of 
 some weeks. He had decided, during that in- 
 terval, that whatever the bond between himself 
 and Cathie might be defined as, it must be broken. 
 He ascended the hill now for the purpose of tell- 
 ing her so, avoiding the hayfield by taking a cir- 
 cuitous route. There was, of course, no harm in 
 his visits, but their purpose might be misconstrued. 
 
 He sauntered towards the place they had named 
 the Bower, leaving a white signal hanging from 
 the farthest elm tree. The sign of Judas this time 
 was not a kiss, but a woman's kerchief. 
 
 The Bower had once been a small quarry ; but 
 it was disused now, and overgrown with thick 
 foliage. Hundreds of such quarries are to be seen 
 in Devon, where the strata of rock are rarely deep 
 enough to permit the use of the same quarry for 
 any lengthened period. In the bottom of this one 
 was a little cleared space, half overgrown with 
 moss. Here any one could sit free from observa- 
 tion, even were the wood above frequented — and 
 rarely indeed did the foot of man pass that way. 
 At most a sheep might bleat, caught in a bramble 
 above, or a startled bird fly from her nest. 
 
 Temple made his way there, and waited. He 
 had caught a glimpse of Cathie transfigured in the 
 light of the settin;^^ sun, and every nerve he had re- 
 
 
WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 
 
 175 
 
 sponded to the sight. He was going to tell her he 
 could come no more. How would she take it? 
 
 He waited for the best part of an hour ; and so 
 great had his excitement become that, in spite 
 of his utmost effort, he could no longer sit still, 
 but must pace the narrow spot feverishly to and 
 fro. 
 
 Then at last came the sound of her swift foot- 
 fall ; the branches were thrust aside, and she stood 
 before him, with the tenderness that lay always 
 in her heart shining through her eyes. 
 
 And before he could stay himself his arms were 
 round her, and he was kissing her with all the 
 passion of his heart hers. 
 
 At first it was all rapture. All that stood be- 
 tween them was forgotten. 
 
 But suddenly it came back to him. He turned 
 from her with a groan, and covered his face with 
 his hands. The step he had been so sure he would 
 not take, he had taken. 
 
 Marriage was impossible. He must turn and 
 tell her so. 
 
 But when he turned, she was gone. He could 
 not believe it. He called her; there was no 
 answer. A terrible sense that she was gone from 
 him irrevocably, settled on him like a heavy 
 cloud. 
 
 "My darling, come back to me!" he cried, but 
 there was no answer. The only sound that came 
 to him, as he paused to listen, was the cooing of 
 
 I 1 1 
 
 'ill 
 
1/6 
 
 'rOSTLE FARM. 
 
 ■M'ii; 
 
 iljitil 
 
 i 
 
 i. 
 
 1 
 
 i 
 ■i 
 
 '1 
 
 
 1* 
 
 ;H 
 
 the wood-pigeons in the great fir tree that threw 
 its dark boughs over the thick growth of the 
 quarry. 
 
 Man though he was, he flung himself on the 
 ground and sobbed in his agony. He loved where 
 love was impossible, — loved her madly. Separa- 
 tion was the only solution. Separation was bitter 
 as death. Sin stared him in the face — and con- 
 quered. 
 
 M; 
 
177 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 " It's this way," said Cathie. " If you was to ask 
 me for marry of 'ee, I wouldn't — zee ? I rinncd 
 away 'cause I wouldn't." 
 
 They were sitting in Cathie's best parlour. It 
 was the first time Temple had ever entered it, 
 and the pathos of her effort was like a voice cry- 
 ing within him. She had put on her best gown 
 to meet him, but she was not awkward in it as 
 most farm-girls would have been. She had entered 
 the room with her own gracious dignity. She was 
 not conscious of her clothes. 
 
 "But, Cathie," he said slowly, "if you wouldn't 
 marry me — well, for the sake of argument, say 
 you won't — still, dear, I should always love you , 
 you would always be first with me. The only 
 difference would be, the world would not know it." 
 
 She looked at him with a sudden cynicism on 
 her face. 
 
 "Ah, but it's powerful needful that the world 
 should know oft!" she answered. 
 
 " How do you knoiv th' j tilings ? " he exclaimed. 
 
 " }\' 
 
 M 
 
178 
 
 'POSTLK FARM. 
 
 i • 
 
 ! ! 
 
 ih 
 
 111 I,., 
 
 She smiled that curious smile she had once 
 smiled on licssic in that same room. 
 
 "You don't gainzay it, then?" 
 
 "I do gainsay it!" he cried vehemently, rising 
 as he spoke and throwing himself on his knees 
 beside her chair. " I do gainsay it ! By all the 
 man in me I gainsay it ! I love you ! I shall 
 love you while life lasts. The world is neither 
 here nor there ! *' 
 
 " Still, 'tain't ezac'ly wife 'ee mak* me," she said ; 
 and in spite of herself scorn flashed from eye and 
 
 lip. 
 
 " You don't understand," he said, rising abruptly. 
 " How should you ? You don't understand my 
 world." 
 
 " Nor don't want for," she answered. " I un'er- 
 stan' I be a maid as free an' glad as heaven to- 
 day. If I listen to 'ee, I'll mak' myself so's I can 
 drown myself down there in the river, glad enough 
 for the mud an' the san' to wash over an' lay 
 me out o' life." Her voice trembled with passion. 
 ** That's what 'ee'd mak' of me, is it ? That's 
 what 'ee call love in ihat damned world 'ee'm 
 proud to speak on ! Go ; an' God's angels weigh 
 your love ! What is't, then, but rags an' filth an' 
 vileness? Ah, God have mercy on me! 'tis a 
 cruel sword-thrust ! " 
 
 She had risen in her anger, but now she dropped 
 into a chair, and the passion died out of her face. 
 She looked at him with larjje mournful eyes. 
 
WHEN THE DAY UREAKS. 
 
 179 
 
 " I that loved 'ee ! " she faltered—" I that thought 
 honour on 'ee ! " 
 
 Every atom of blood had left his cheek. He 
 came towards her. 
 
 •• Cathie ! " he cried, holding out his hands to her 
 in pleading. 
 
 Her beautiful face trembled, her bosom heaved. 
 
 " Forgive me ! " he faltered, dropping on his knees 
 beside her. " Only forgive me ! Be my wife." 
 
 "Is that God's truth?" she asked, trembliii 
 grcaily. 
 
 "It is God's truth," he answered solemnly. 
 

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 I 
 


 \ 
 
 I 
 
 i8o 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 There was no sleep for Temple that night. He 
 attempted none. Through the long hours he paced 
 the room in quick excited thought, and when the 
 day dawned he was still far from any decision. 
 
 He went to the window and looked across the 
 river. The mist hung on the hills and half obscured 
 the water. The trees stood out indistinct like dim 
 giant shadows. The farm itself was invisible. 
 
 And as he looked, he felt there was no spot in all 
 the earth like it, and Catherine the only woman in 
 the world he desired to make his wife. He longed 
 to go across and tell her so. The first fresh breath 
 of dawn stirred the window curtains, and blew upon 
 his face, and weighted his eyelids. Sleep had come 
 to him suddenly, and he turned and threw himself 
 on the couch, and a profound slumber fell upon him. 
 
 When he awoke, the sun was streaming across 
 the room, and on all the broad wooded lands, 
 on the river, on the line of hills across it, on the 
 old grey farm. For one instant's flash he believed 
 he had married Cathie, and with a sudden sick- 
 
WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 
 
 I8l 
 
 t. He 
 ; paced 
 len the 
 sion. 
 Dss the 
 jscured 
 ce dim 
 
 in all 
 lan in 
 [longed 
 breath 
 upon 
 come 
 limself 
 >n him. 
 across 
 lands, 
 »n the 
 :lieved 
 sick- 
 
 ness of despair he realised his folly. Then evci>- 
 thing came back to him clearly. Three short hours' 
 sleep had changed him from a passionate lover to 
 a cold and calculating man of the world. He could 
 not marry Cathie. 
 
 Of course he could not ! He saw it all as clear 
 as daylight now. Already he had advanced further 
 with Elsie than a man of honour could retreat. 
 He must explain to Cathie. After all, she was 
 only a poor ignorant farm -girl; and though she 
 could not be expected to understand, still no pai- 
 ticular harm was done. 
 
 Of course he loved her. But he was not going 
 to be quite such a fool as to wreck his whole pros- 
 pects on that account. He could picture Lord 
 Frobi.sher's expression if he brought in Cathie and 
 introduced her to hirn as his bride-elect ! Farewell, 
 then, to the LTpcott Hall estates ! 
 
 And yet, how in the world was he going to tell 
 Cathie ? He shrank at the prospect — at the thought 
 of her anger. It would make an end not only to 
 love but to their friendship. When he came to con- 
 sider that, he felt he could not lose her friendship. 
 No, no! he valued it. He could not part with it. 
 Catherine fitted into a nook that no other woman 
 had ever occupied before, and nevei could again. 
 He loved her ! That was the appalling part of it all. 
 He loved her madly ! Yet how could he introduce 
 her to the world as his wife ? Could he have her edu- 
 cated ? He had not the money. No ; better leave 
 
l§. 
 
 III 
 
 i'i' 
 
 Ml' 
 
 Mi 
 
 !■! 
 
 182 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 things as they were for the present. He would 
 go on educating her himself. Any day old Fro- 
 bisher might die ; and then he would place her 
 somewhere, where she could be fitted for the station 
 which she was to occupy. In the meanwhile, how- 
 ever, nothing could be done. He could not part 
 with her : he could not marry her. They would 
 enjoy each other for the time being anyway, and 
 not trouble just yet about the future. 
 
 He rowed himself across the river at an hour 
 when he believed the men on the place would be 
 out at work. 
 
 He had calculated rightly. No one was m the 
 yard as he passed through. The gate clanging 
 to behind him brought Cathie from the kitchen. 
 
 When she saw who it was, she half drew back 
 with a shyness wholly new to him. The sense that 
 the relationship between them was now for ever 
 altered — that she belonged to him body and soul, 
 and owned it in the sweet shy grace with which she 
 greeted him — sent every nerve in his body tingling. 
 She was his ; and as he took her in his arms in the 
 first mad joy of possession, he felt that until that 
 moment he had never lived. 
 
 " I've been waitin' for 'ee/' she said, and the tears 
 were in her eyes. " Ah ! do *ee s'pose I be the girl 
 for let the man I love lose hisself for me ? 'Ee've 
 got for say good-bye to me right 'ere — for I love 
 'ee too well to cumber 'ee with a rough farm-maid 
 for wife ! Ah ! do 'ee s'pose I would ? Do 'ee 
 
WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 
 
 183 
 
 think it for a moment ? No, no ! 'ec'm free as God's 
 air! I'll never keep 'ec to the word 'ee spoke 
 iri passion ! " 
 
 Her beautiful face so near lis own, glowing with 
 an emotion so worthy of her, stirred all the best 
 that was in him. He recked nothing— all he wanted 
 at that moment was her promise to be his wife. 
 He desired her with his whole soul. Rather pov- 
 erty with her, than all the riches of the world with- 
 out her. 
 
 "Cathie," he cried, with strong emotion, "we 
 belong to each other! With all that is best in 
 me, I desire you ! Don't be cruel, when we might 
 be so happy I " 
 
 He whispered the last words with his check 
 against hers. 
 
 She hesitated ; she trembled. " I don't want 
 for bring nothing on 'ee but good." 
 
 "You couldn't!" 
 
 " Afterwards 'ee might be sorry." 
 
 "I never should." 
 
 "'Ee might be 'shamed o' me." 
 
 " How could I be ? There never was a more 
 beautiful girl than you are." 
 
 " But when I ope' me mouth ? " 
 
 " I'll teach you how to speak." 
 
 " Oh no, no, no ! " she cried, moving back from 
 him ; " it wouldn't never do I " 
 
 "Well, le;: it pass for the present, then," said 
 Temple. "We'll see how fast you learn." 
 
1 84 
 
 TOSILK FARM. 
 
 1:1 
 
 ,< 
 
 1 I 
 
 'h 
 
 " Well," she said, aficr a pause, " if I satisfy 
 myself, I'll answer for't I'll satisfy 'ee too — for I 
 be that mortal partic'lar. Hut till I be satisfied 
 o' myself, I'll never, never marry 'ee!" 
 
 "But when I tell you that you satisfy me now, 
 this moment? — that I don't want you different, 
 but just as you are?" 
 
 "Oh, go 'long!" she answered. "Wheer's the 
 use o' talkin' foolishness ? 'Ow'd 'ee like for see 
 me step out o' church door wi' *ee, an' step into 
 some grand big place, an' not know the names o' 
 'alf the things I seed theer, nor the uses o' mun ! 
 No, no ! theer b'ain't no call for talk up foolishness. 
 Us 'ave got a life to live, an' folks to meet. Us 
 can't live a life up under a thimble." 
 
 " We could live in a little cottage and be happy 
 as the day is long." 
 
 " Thiccy b'ain't my idea o' 'appiness. If I can't 
 eddicate meself so as, pass where I might, folks 
 'ould never put a finger o' scorn on the place 
 I sprung from, I'd never marry 'ee at all! Now, 
 that's plain!" 
 
 "Who is going to be master, Cathie, you or I ?" 
 said Temple, smiling, as he drew her towards him. 
 
 " I tell 'ee what I've always yert tell," she said. 
 " Courtin' days is bes' I When a man's in courtship, 
 then 'tis 'elp 'ee over stile ; but when 'ee'm married, 
 'tis stigged in mud an' never turn to 'ee ! Whether 
 there be truth in't or no, I couldn' tell 'ee, but I'll 
 be master while I can, an' so mak' sure o' the fust 
 
 t 1 
 
 h 
 
 1 V 
 
 
 
 . 
 
 L 
 
 k 
 
WHEN THE DAY BREAKS. 
 
 185 
 
 part. Ah ! but bless 'ee life," she finished, looking 
 up at him with a charming tenderness, " that be all 
 my frolic ! I tell 'ee I'd know nothin' better nor 
 to do what 'ee asked of me, no matter what 'twas 
 — but — well, I be queer — sometimes I know more 
 nor I did ought 'cording to ! There's some things 
 I be just amazin' firm on, an' 'ee couldn' alter me 
 in 'em no'ow. There's some'at comes to me v^'^n 
 I be kind o' hesitatin' ; an' this way seems bes', c».i' 
 that way easier — they call me crazy, an' 'appen I 
 be — but when that some'at comes an* tells me 
 'ardest road's the road for me to tak', do 'ee think 
 'ee could shaken me out o't ? " She stood upright 
 and looked at him almost defiantly. " No ; you 
 might break my bones an' tear out the 'eart o' me, 
 but the very power o' heaven's on me, an' I won't 
 budge. Ah ! " she finished, " Miah saith there b'ain't 
 no God ! but leastways there's that as 'elps those as 
 'as never known a mother — an* 'appen could call no 
 man by the name o' vather." 
 
 She was trembling with strong emotion. 
 
 As for Temple, he was awed. He felt in the 
 presence of that which was better than himself. 
 A wave of exaltation lifted him to a higher level. 
 He kissed her with a passionate reverence, and he 
 gave her his word as a man of honour, that never, 
 no matter how strong his own feelings, would he 
 seek to dissuade her from the path her highest 
 instincts bad^ her follow, 
 

 I 'i 
 
 11 
 
 II 
 
 A III. f ! 
 
 r 
 
 ^ ti 
 
 . \. 
 
BOOK III. 
 
 LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT 
 
 ■ : I i 
 
 n 
 
I ft 
 
 ■(IV 
 
 it^i'ft 
 
 I i\. 
 

 "-T 
 
 ' I 
 
 ! 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 It happened one cveninrr Madge had pfone out to 
 dinner, leaving Miss Scottic in sole possession of 
 the picturesque little cottage overlooking the river 
 Teel ; for, as Madge had insisted on walking, the 
 maid had gone to keep her company and give her 
 protection, at Miss ScoUie's earnest request. 
 
 Since they had started the wind had risen, and 
 now blew in sudden gusts against the window-panes, 
 bringing with it a deluging rain. Miss Scottie felt 
 no anxiety. She was sure Madge would either be 
 detained by her friends for the night or sent home 
 in their carriage. So she sat before the fire, which 
 the chill October night made welcome, and dozed 
 peacefully in the intervals of her fancywork. 
 
 But a sound above the beating rain and angry 
 wind caused her suddenly to sit up straight and 
 listen. 
 
 It came again — a long, low tap at the door. 
 
 Miss Scottie was one of those superstitious people 
 who never hear an unexpected sound but it imme- 
 diately assumes a grave importance. 
 
 i,i 
 
 
V' i 
 [11 i I 
 
 m- 
 
 TQO 
 
 •POSTLE FARM. 
 
 She waited and listened. Presently it came 
 again. Then, summoning all her courage, she rose 
 and opened wide the door, convinced .she should 
 find no one there. The October blast swept in rain 
 and yellow leaves, and set the pictures swinging on 
 the wall. 
 
 A girl with a shawl over her head stood outside, 
 gazing at her with dark wide-open eyes. 
 
 Miss Scottie put out her hand and drew her in. 
 
 " Come in," she said, raising her thin voice above 
 the storm. " It is a cruel night to be out in. Do 
 you want shelter .' " 
 
 She closed the door with difficulty, and turned to 
 speak to her visitor ; but the lamplight fell on a 
 face of such singular beauty that for a moment she 
 was rendered speechless. The girl had flung the 
 shawl from her head, and her damp, dark hair clung 
 in tendrils about her ears and brow. She was more 
 than common tall. The magnificent moulding of 
 her figure was outlined by the light above her. 
 Her wonderful eyes shot out expressive glances. 
 She stood as queens might stand, and Miss Scottie, 
 remembering her greeting, said — 
 
 " I beg your pardon. It was dark. I could not 
 see. Take this chair near the fire. You must be 
 very wet." 
 
 The girl obeyed. Tears of compassion welled 
 into Miss Scottic's eyes. Here was a high-born girl 
 in the garb of a peasant. It could have but one 
 interpretation. 
 
MNE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. I9I 
 
 " You want shelter,** she said tremulously. " You 
 need not ask it. You have it." 
 
 She put out her hand — the hand that no man had 
 ever clasped or kissed — and took the girl's. Cathie 
 smiled, that wonderful sudden smile of hers. Then 
 she opened her mouth and spoke. 
 
 " I don't want vor no shalter," she said, the smooth 
 broad Devonshire rolling off her tongue with the 
 ease of custom. " I only want vor larn an' be a 
 scholard." 
 
 Miss Scottie positively started. Nothing in the 
 world could have surprised her more thoroughly. 
 She had expected to hear the delicate speech of a 
 well-bred girl. 
 
 "Who are you?" she cried. "Where do you 
 come from ? " 
 
 "Over to 'Postle Farm. I want for larn. You 
 be the school missus, I s'pose?" 
 
 " No, my dear, I'm mX Do you want to see the 
 schoolmistress ? Her cottage is on the other side of 
 the schoolhouse. We are living in the old school- 
 house cottage. Did you never go to school } Can't 
 you read or write } " 
 
 The girl smiled contemptuously. 
 
 "So can mos' folk, I s'pose. You can do more 
 than that yourself, I reckon." 
 
 Miss Scottie murmured a diffident assent. 
 
 "An' why shouldn' I?" 
 
 "Oh, certainly, no reason," said Miss Scottie 
 meekly. 
 
! 
 
 192 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 
 it) 
 
 
 1 i 
 
 i^it 
 
 ri 
 
 Cathie sat quietly looking into the fire for a 
 minute or two without speaking. 
 
 " Ees," she said at last, " I want for larn." 
 
 " Let me see," said Miss Scottie slowly. " How 
 could it be managed ? Are there no night-schools 
 here, I wonder ? I could, perhaps, have made some 
 arrangement, but we are leaving shortly. My 
 dearest girl, whose companion I am, is going to 
 take a farm." 
 
 "What for, when 'er's a-got this?" said Cathie, 
 looking round the cosy little room. 
 
 "Just for amusement. She's going to milk and 
 make the butter herself." 
 
 " Lord sakes ! '' cried Cathie, bursting into a little 
 peal of laughter. " Well, if that b'ain't a queer kind 
 of amusement ! " 
 
 "Yes, it's very queer, as you rightly say. Very 
 queer. But then, my dearest girl is queer, but oh, 
 so lovable ! I am sure she would be so pleased for 
 me to help you to find a teacher. She is the soul 
 of kindness!" 
 
 "I don't want no charity," said Cathie proudly. 
 " Grandfer's got money laid by in a stockin' up the 
 chimney. What I want is for larn. Oh, if I could 
 larn ! " she cried, rising and clasping her hands. 
 " If I could only larn for talk like gentlefolk, an' 
 behave meself as sichlike ! " 
 
 " So I'm sure you will, my dear ! " cried Miss 
 Scottie. " I am sure we can arrange something for 
 you with kind Mrs Eliot, our schoolmistress, over 
 
 i 
 
I 
 
 LINK UPON LINE. PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. I93 
 
 the way, I do not see, though you are grown-up, 
 why you should not go to school, if you wish to. 
 I will see Mrs Eliot and arrange it rll for you, and 
 then you must call in again." 
 
 " I do so want for larn ! " said Cathie. 
 
 " The love of learning is a beautiful thing to be 
 possessed of." 
 
 Cathie looked a little guilty. 
 
 '• I always was for larnin' for larnin's sake ; but 
 there be a powerful reason of late as mak's me want 
 for larn more partic'lar than ever. See, t'ain't only 
 love of larnin' brought me straight away to 'ee; 
 tho', mind 'ee, I did love larnin' when there waren't 
 nothin' ahind o't ! " 
 
 Miss Scottie nodded her head and smiled. She 
 pictured to herself one of the superior artisan class 
 asking this girl's hand in marriage, and she warmly 
 admired her desire to be eq al with him in education. 
 
 "I will see Mrs Eliot for you, she said, "and let 
 you know." 
 
 Cathie rose. 
 
 " My dear, it's a dreadful night ! " 
 
 "Mak's no manner o' dififer'nce to mi," replied 
 Cathie, putting the shawl over her head once more. 
 
 "My dear, I can't let you go out till you have 
 had a hot cup of cocoa or something to warm you." 
 
 " Us 'ave got plenty to 'Postle Farm. Us don't 
 want for nothin'. I'm feared I've a-massed 'ee floor. 
 Please t'excuse, an' many thanks for your offer o' 
 'elp — 'tis won'erful kind o' 'ee, sure 'nough." 
 
 N 
 
194 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 
 i. 
 
 " Well now, come, let me fetch you a hot drink !" 
 " No, thankee, ma'am. Your kindness is the same." 
 She opened the door, and the whirling leaves 
 
 danced into the room rnd the driving rain beat 
 
 iipon her face. 
 With a cheery " good night to 'ee ! " she shut the 
 
 door. 
 
 When Cathie reached home that night she knelt 
 beside her humble bed and said, "God, who knows 
 the 'earts o' maidens what wants for lam, Cathie 
 thanks Thee, though 'er aren't got no fine words! 
 Amen ! " 
 
195 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 Miss Scottie ran over to call on the schoolmis- 
 tress the following morning immediately after break- 
 fast. She was one of those diffident people cursed 
 with an ungovernable impulsiveness that always 
 leads them to make requests at the wrong time. 
 The regular schoolmistress at Upcott had been 
 ordered to the south of France for a thorough rest, 
 and her place was being taken by a woman of gentle 
 birth. Mrs Eliot was a niece of Lady Gamble's. The 
 widow of a colonel, she had only been left fairly well 
 provided for, but the greater part of her income she 
 set aside for the education of her only child. As 
 she had not much money to give to charity, she gave 
 her services instead — a much severer test. The 
 schoolmistress drew her salary and took her holiday 
 at the same time, and Mrs Eliot supplied her place. 
 Perhaps it was a good thing Colonel Eliot was 
 deceased ; for though he and his wife had been a 
 devoted couple, he had somewhat restricted her 
 sphere of usefulness. This post of village school- 
 mistress she certainly could not have filled had he 
 
 I ^1. 
 
ig6 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 :i 
 
 been living. She would, of course, have been 
 occupied in ministering to his creature comforts, and 
 fostering, after the manner of a tactful woman, the 
 unbounded, if somewhat exacting, love and ad- 
 miration he lavished upon her; while the poor 
 consumptive schoolmistress would have struggled 
 wearily forward to the inevitable end. 
 
 Being interrupted at the busiest time of the day 
 is not calculated to make a person feel philanthrop- 
 ically disposed. You want leisure to realise the 
 claims of other people. 
 
 As Miss Scottie tumbler! out her history of Cathie 
 with nervous diffidence and suppressed excitement, 
 Mrs Eliot felt a growing annoyance. Surely, when 
 she had voluntarily undertaken the whole school, 
 Miss Scottie could have found time to do some- 
 thing for this girl without burdening ker with the 
 responsibility ? 
 
 " My time is really so fully taken up," she said, " I 
 do not think I could undertake anything further. 
 Besides, very probably it is nothing but a freak of 
 this girl's, and in a week or two she will be tired of 
 it. There is no reason why a girl should not have 
 an education nowadays in the natural way. I 
 think it absurd for them to come back when they 
 are grown up, expressing sorrow for missed oppor- 
 tunities. Opportunities don't come more than once 
 as a rule, and people ought to know it." 
 
 Then, as she saw the gradual lengthening of Miss 
 Scottie's eager face, she finished pleasantly — 
 
 A 
 
i\ 
 
 LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. I97 
 
 "I am very sorry, Miss Scottie, but you see I 
 could not put a great grown-up girl — you say she is 
 quite grown up ? — with a class of children ; it would 
 upset the whole class : besides, she would want 
 individual attention. I really couldn't manage. 
 You have no idea how hard I have to work to 
 keep up with the Sixth Standard arithmetic ! " she 
 finished with a smile. " You will forgive my hurry- 
 ing now.' I have a class waiting." 
 
 " Why can't she teach the girl herself instead of 
 troubling me with it?" was her thought as she 
 returned to the schoolroom. 
 
 And yet she was a particularly kind and amiable 
 woman, bu*^ it is a fact that other people's charities 
 do not appeal to us. We want to be brought face 
 to face with a situation and have our own particular 
 sympathies stirred, before we can rouse ourselves 
 to action. People can get as selfish and narrow- 
 minded over their own pet charities quite as easily 
 as they can over anything that never even had the 
 ghost of a noble feeling to start it. 
 
 "She won't do it ! " said poor Miss Scottie, sitting 
 down the picture of abject despair. 
 
 "Won't do it.'" cried Madge, looking up from a 
 little watercolour sketch she was busy over. " How 
 beastly of her ! There, Cocksey, is t/tat the right 
 green? Too yellow now, isn't it?" 
 
 "Too yellow, as you say," murmured Cocksey 
 absently. "So pretty too!" 
 
 ••What! the yellow shade?" 
 
 . I 
 
 hi 
 
198 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 1 3 
 
 iis 
 
 
 i r- 
 
 r 2 
 
 " No, the poor farm-girl." 
 
 " Oh, bother that farm-girl ! You haven't spoken 
 two intelligent sentrnces since you saw her. It's 
 horrid of Mrs Eliot, I think. Some people are so 
 selfish ! " 
 
 " Of course you know, Madge, my dear, I might 
 find time perhaps to teach the poor thing ; and if," 
 began Miss Scottie, diffidently — " if, that is, you did 
 not mind, and " 
 
 "Mind! I should rather think I did! Why 
 you'd always be with her when I wanted you with 
 me ! Besides, surely to goodness you've had teach- 
 ing enough ! It's your time to rest now." 
 
 " It's never time to rest when there's something to 
 be done, as my poor father used to say." 
 
 " H'm ; I thought it wasn't original." 
 
 " Life's a very serious thing and responsibility." 
 
 " Oh dear ! I wish you wouldn't get religious," said 
 Madge, throwing down her paint-brush. " It's some- 
 thing awful when you do. You'll be going to these 
 revival meetings over the way before you're done ! " 
 
 " My dear ! " said Miss Scottie, drawing herself 
 up, " I'm nothing if I'm not a churchwoman." 
 
 " Then you ought to see the church school is the 
 place for farm-girls to learn." 
 
 " Yes, I do see that ; but you see, dear Mrs 
 Eliot " 
 
 " Oh, * dear Mrs Eliot ' is like all the rest of them, 
 — do anything for her own pleasure and nothing for 
 anybody else's I " 
 
 "-1 
 
LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT 199 
 
 ^^ " Mrs Eliot is a dear, kind woman," said Cocksey. 
 " I suppose, my dear, you wouldn't consent to the 
 girl coming here every night and letting mc do what 
 I can for her ? " 
 
 " Certainly not." 
 
 In spite of herself Miss Scottie felt relieved. 
 
 " What does the girl want with learning as long 
 as she can read and write, and milk the cowi and 
 feed the pigs? Really, I have no patience with 
 those stuck-up idiots who want to play the piano 
 and be ladies ! Look here, Cocksey, nothing would 
 make me consent to your victimising yourself! " 
 
 Miss Scottie, as she went slowly upstairs to take 
 ofif her hat, wiped away two furtive tears. 
 
 " Youth is very hard ! " she murmured. 
 
 And yet in her heart of hearts she was glad to 
 be quit of the trouble. 
 
 
 'It 
 
w 
 
 200 
 
 "I 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 Glad until Cathie called for her answer. She 
 went trembling to Madge. 
 
 " My dear, v/hat shall I say ? She's come." 
 
 Madge, who was not very dignified, got up on 
 tiptoe and peeped through a chink in the door. 
 Then she came back to Miss Scottie, and whis- 
 pered — 
 
 " Isn't she handsome ! " 
 
 Again she stole forward for another peep, re- 
 turning to say — 
 
 " Magnificent eyes ! " 
 
 Then back again, to return with—* 
 
 "Not like a farm-girl at all." 
 
 Akid Cocksey stood with finger on lip and the 
 moisture gathering in her pale eyes, because the 
 sympathy of her " dearest girl " was being enlisted 
 without any interference from her. 
 
 Madge came back at last for the final time^ 
 and whispered — 
 
 « Go in and talk to her. I'll listen," 
 
 lil: 
 
LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 201 
 
 Miss Scottie went in without having taken the 
 precaution to ask what she should say. 
 
 Cathie did not answer Miss Scottie's "Good 
 evening." She sprang to the subject at once. 
 
 "Be I gwin vor larn?" 
 
 At the eager questioning of the beautiful eyes 
 Miss Scottie's i 11. She hesitated. 
 
 " I'll ask my dearest girl," she faltered. 
 
 And through the half-open door Madge's l.c .1 
 was thrust nodding vehemently 
 
 "Yes, yes, yes!" 
 
 .•'ih 
 
nv- 
 
 f' 
 
 202 
 
 ,. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 Temple's visit to Upcott Hall was only a short 
 one. The day soon came when he had to climb 
 the hill and say good-bye to the beautiful girl 
 who had given her heart to him. 
 
 Temple's feelings as he strode away from her 
 would be difficult to analyse. As for hers, it felt 
 to her as if half her life had gone with him. 
 
 There was nothing, however, in the expression 
 of her face to attract the attention of the men 
 amongst whom she moved. She prepared their 
 dinner, and as soon as she had emptied the 
 steaming potatoes into a large dish in the centre 
 of the table nlie withdrew. 
 
 At the door she met Miah. 
 
 "Come back an' stay a bit wi' us, Cathie, my 
 gal," he said in a wheedling tone. 
 
 " Mebbe I would if there was anythin' for 
 tempt me. But men folk I can't a-bear. Driv'th 
 me mazed for sit an' 'ear mun mounchin'. 
 
 She passed out and across the fields. 
 
 Once on the hills, she lingered till late in the 
 afternoon. When she returned she did her milk- 
 
 k 
 
LINE UPON LINE, PRKCEPT UPON PRECEPT. 20$ 
 
 her 
 
 felt 
 
 my 
 
 ing, put the kitchen straight, and set a cold supper 
 for the men. Then her day's work was ended. 
 
 Although a light rain had begun, she could not 
 remain within the house. A painful sense of uncer- 
 tainty clouded her future ; a fearful sense of oppres- 
 sion, over and above, and altogether separate from, 
 her feeling of loss in Temple's withdrawal. 
 
 Over at Stibb Farm, Bessie, too, was experiencing 
 all that her small soul could, in the way of fluttering 
 emotions. 
 
 After burning the dinner, and omitting to put any 
 water with the potatoes she had been told to boil, 
 she passed the afternoon in tears. Towards evening 
 she took her hat from the peg, and moved towards 
 the door with a furtive glance at her mother. 
 
 "Wheer be gwin, Bessie?" inquired Mrs Mollard. 
 
 " I can't stir what 'ee'm askin', * Wheer be 
 gwin } * " said Bessie pettishly. " I be gwin out 
 for a breath o' fresh air." 
 
 "Why, it be rainin', chilM" said Mrs Mollard. 
 " An* whose for milkey ? Tom's away wi' the steers." 
 
 " I'll do't when I come back," said Bessie. 
 
 " I should like for know what would 'appen if I 
 put off this, that, an' t'other for please meself?" 
 grumbled Mrs Mollard. "Do 'ee s'pose " 
 
 But Bessie was gone. She ran rapidly along the 
 edge of the hillside till she came to the lane down 
 which the carts passed to 'Postle Farm. She had 
 not long to wait. Presently came the rumbling of 
 heavy wheels, and Miah came in view. He had 
 been doing some carting for Mr Mollard, and for 
 
 I i ' 
 
r 
 
 204 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 I 
 
 Ih 
 
 ni 
 
 the past week he had returned from work at the 
 same time. 
 
 •' Whoa ! " he cried to his horse when he came 
 alongside of Bessie, who was making a pretence of 
 picking flowers in the hedge. " Why, ma-deear, 
 *ee'm lookin' up so pink as a little blush rose!" 
 
 Bessie grew a little pinker at the compliment. 
 
 "Ton me soul, since I seed 'ee last," continued 
 Miah, " I ain't thought upon nothin' else. I be that 
 took up about 'ee, Bessie, 'tis amazin' ! " 
 
 " Oh, Mr Sluman, 'ee be so much older nor what I 
 be, I can't for the life o' me think what 'tis 'e can 
 find so pleasuresome in a me-aid like I be ! " 
 
 " Why, my dear, look to yer beauty ! Come, now, 
 an* give me a kiss ! " 
 
 " Oh, no ! " said Bessie, " mother wouldn't like it ! " 
 
 " Mother won't never know, ma-deear ! " 
 
 " Oh, but, Mr Sluman, I don't care for be kissed 
 hinder 'edges — don't seem proper for a maid." 
 
 " Ma-deear, you jus' let me geeve 'ee a kiss, an' 
 you'll find 'tis proper 'nough ! Why, I'll be bound 
 no man's ever kissed 'ee, now 'ave 'em ? Boys, when 
 they play ' Kiss in the Ring,' belike — but no man 
 what loves 'ee warm, my little dear, like I do ! 
 Come, now, an' 'ee'll see 'ee'll like it proper!" 
 
 He had drawn near to her, when a step behind 
 caused them both to start guiltily aside. Crazy 
 Cathie was coming towards them. Her lowering 
 gaze was fixed steadily on Miah. Miah slouched off, 
 and Bessie turned homewards. 
 
|ffi; 
 
 LINE UPON LINE, PRKCEIT UPON PRF.CF.rT. 205 
 
 Cathie hastened her steps and overtook her. 
 
 " You middlin' little fool ! " she cried. " What be 
 doin' with a drunken ol' varmint like Miah be? I 
 live in's 'ouse wi' un, an' I know un ! " 
 
 " Mr Sluman's always very kind to me," said 
 Bessie, "an' you've no call for spake so spiteful." 
 
 " Go 'long, you little fool ! I'd like for shiik* the 
 life out o' 'ee! Honest maids don't go trapesin' 
 round lanes wi' great old drunkards ! I tell 'ee now 
 plain, 'e be the blackest villain when a woman's tied 
 to un as ever I seed. 'Aven't I seed my own aunt 
 quak' wi' fear for un ? I tell 'ee plain, when 'ec 
 comes 'ome in one o' they mazcy fits o' drink, a 
 woman goes in fear o' 'er life wi' un ! " 
 
 "You'm not buried yet, anyways," said Bessie, 
 tossing her head, and pleased with this feeble 
 answer. 
 
 Cathie smiled. 
 
 " I b'ain't marr'ed to un ! " she said. " I kep' un in's 
 place wi' the avil eye. I mak' un mind 'isself ! An' 
 I say this, God 'elp the woman 'e gets tiie maister 
 'and of! She'll drag 'erself to's grave, as my aunt 
 a-done ! " 
 
 " Oh, ees," said Bessie, " you can speak up very 
 fine! P'raps you want un for yerself.? I seed 'ee 
 walkin' with a gentleman a month or two agone. 
 P'raps you can't spare me a honest man ! " 
 
 Cathie looked at her with withering scorn ; then 
 her face turned very pale, and she passed on, for 
 she had no answer to make. 
 

 T 
 
 it 
 
 206 
 
 
 
 ill 
 
 il|!ir 
 
 I'ir 
 
 1 
 1 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 One fine evening in December Cathie started off 
 to Upcott, as she had done regularly every night 
 since Miss Scottie had first undertaken to teach her. 
 No matter what the weather was, she always pre- 
 sented herself punctually at the old schoolhouse. 
 
 This evening she was starting rather late, and her 
 pace for the first quarter of a mile was hurried. 
 Then she suddenly pulled herself up short. 
 
 " You'm a wicked maid ! " she exclaimed aloud, 
 and turned back the way she had come. 
 
 When she re-entered the kitchen Miah was lolling 
 across the table nodding over a newspaper. Grand- 
 fer was sitting by the fire, his fingers twitching 
 convulsively over the arms of his chair. 
 
 " I be bit poo'ly ! " he said, looking up as the girl 
 came towards him — " bit poo'ly ! I b'ain't sure but 
 what death's a-took me ! " 
 
 "Time 'e did tak' the ol' varmint!" said Miah to 
 himself, while he cast a glittering eye on the girl. 
 
 " What's matter with 'ee ? " asked Cathie, leaning 
 over him gently. " Be painsome } " 
 
 
LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 20/ 
 
 " Naw," he answered slowly, and rolling his head 
 from one side to the other. "Naw— not painsome 
 'zactly, but I be mortal uneasy. 'Ave 'ee got a texty 
 for zay ? " 
 
 " I can't a-mind one now," said Cathie. Then she 
 looked up suddenly. " Grandfer," she said, " theer's 
 some one anigh 'ee 'oldin' of 'ee tremblin' 'ands." 
 
 The old man heaved a deep sigh. The painful 
 restlessness left him. He sank back in his chair 
 and slept. 
 
 And there came to the girl, as if borne on music 
 sweeter than the harp, 
 
 " Had you not stayed, I must have fled ! " 
 
 " Ah ! " she cried, looking upwards and apparently 
 addressing the air, " 'twas 'ee then a-tuggin' at me 
 heartstrings till I couldn' go no farder, but mus' 
 come back ! " 
 
 "Crazy crittur!" muttered Miah, "spakin' up to 
 nothin'! Who ever yert tell o' such a thing .i*" 
 
 Cathie remained kneeling by the old man's chair 
 till fatigue forced her to slip into a sitting posture ; 
 and presently she too slept. 
 
I 
 
 208 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 " Catherine has not been for a whole week," said 
 Miss Scottie. " I cannot understand it." 
 
 "She's such fun too!" said Madge, looking up 
 with a yawn. "I declare I quite miss her." 
 
 " Sarah tells me she has the reputation of being a 
 witch." 
 
 Madge laughed. 
 
 " Well, my dear, there are strange and unaccount- 
 able things in the world. Some say she is crazy." 
 
 "Well, we can contradict that, any way," said 
 Madge. " There's Laury calling." 
 
 Laury was Mrs Eliot's little boy. He had taken 
 a violent fancy to Madge, and had asked as an 
 especial treat to spend the day and night with her. 
 
 " Madge," said Laury, rather too closely on the top 
 of his prayers to be termed exactly devout, " Sarah 
 says Cathie's got the avil eye." 
 
 " So have I — two." 
 
 " What is the avil eye ? " 
 
 " An eye that wherever it looks brings disease and 
 death." 
 
 !:» I 
 
 ; ( 
 
I 
 
 LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 209 
 
 " But yours doesn't." 
 
 " It does as much as Catherine's." 
 
 " Sarah says Cathie's got avil eye ; she knows it 
 for a fact." 
 
 " Sarah's an idiot." 
 
 " But Sarah says every one says she has. I do 
 hope Cathie won't cast the avil eye on my rabbits ! " 
 
 Madge burst out laughing, but Miss Scottie cried — 
 
 " Oh, my precious boy, don't think of such a 
 thing ! It is not possible. No one has the power 
 to harm either you or your rabbits ! " 
 
 The little boy gave a sigh. 
 
 " What a nice world it would be if they hadn't ! " 
 was all he said as he settled himself to sleep. 
 
 Madge laughed again. 
 
 "Oh, my dear!" cried Miss Scottie, "you don't 
 take the world seriously enough ! " 
 
 "You take it seriously enough for us both, dear 
 old Cocksey ! " replied Madge, and putting her arm 
 round her waist and blowing a kiss to the boy, she 
 led Cocksey downstairs. 
 
 "Joking apart, though," she continued, as they 
 took their seats on either side of the fireplace, " I can 
 be very serious when I like. I want to know what 
 all this information you are cramming into Cathie is 
 going to do for her } " 
 
 " The child wants to learn, my dear. But I won't 
 say I'm not troubled with ihe same question. She 
 wants to learn, and I feel somehow God's in it, and 
 I must teach her." 
 
 O 
 
 f = 
 
p 
 
 'y ■. 
 
 1 
 
 ^'i ,: 
 
 
 1 ' 
 
 i 
 
 It 
 
 
 1- ] 
 
 
 i 
 
 2IO 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 " You're sure it isn't just that you love teaching ? " 
 said Madge slily. 
 
 " Oh, my dear ! " cried Cocksey, too inexpressibly 
 shocked for further words. 
 
 " Have you been thinking ^ " said Madge presently. 
 " Our lease is up here in a month, and we haven't 
 the ghost of a notion where to go ! " 
 
 " Oh, dear ! I thought perhaps you were thinking' 
 better of itj and were going to remain on." 
 
 " I can't. The agent told me to-day the cottage 
 is re-let." 
 
 Cocksey sat looking the picture of despair. 
 
 " I've been making inquiries everywhere," said 
 Madge, "but they say there isn't a ghost of a chance 
 till Lady Day!" 
 
 " What ! not till March ? What is to become of 
 all the animals.?" 
 
 " Well, we shall have to turn in somewhere else 
 and out again." 
 
 Cocksey groaned. 
 
 " My dear," she said, gathering up her work, " don't 
 let's talk of it to-night, or I shan't sleep. Either we 
 must play Patience, or I must go straight to bed ! " 
 
 " Patience for preference ! " said Madge, hastily 
 fetc^iing the cards. 
 
 liii 
 
211 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 On Sunday evening Bessie Mollard slipped away 
 from Stibb Farm without being observed. 
 
 She ran out across the fields in the direction of 
 Tostle Farm. She wanted to ask Cathie a question. 
 She was not afraid Cathie would bear her any ill- 
 will for allowing Miah's attention. Cathie never 
 bore ill-will, though in her moments of sudden 
 passion Bessie feared her. 
 
 But when Bessie reached 'Postle Farm, Cathie 
 could not stay to speak to her: her grandfather 
 ! was ill; she thought he was dying. 
 
 Bessie was so much excited at the news of such 
 an interesting event, that she ran back to her 
 mother's, exclaiming breathlessly as she entered the 
 kitchen — 
 
 "Oh, mother, only think! Grandfer to 'Postle 
 Varm's a-dying!" 
 
 "Who telled 'ee.?" cried Mrs Mollard, pausing in 
 her task of laying the evening meal. 
 
 "Cathie telled me just this minute when I was 
 over theer!" 
 
 
 ii 
 
 
it 
 
 » m 
 
 m 
 
 li 
 
 I -. ■ 
 
 •it 1; ■■ ' 
 
 ily 
 
 212 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 " Over thcer !" cried Mrs Mollard. ' Overtheer! 
 Now only look to it if the pigs don't die What did 
 cc want for go over theer for ? I dunno what be 
 a-comin' to 'ee. Yer never 'tend to what I tell 'ee 
 I telled 'ee only this forenoon for 'tend the flower- 
 nats, an' 'tain't done ! You'm gettin' so fast an' so 
 swing an' so hairy, there b'ain't no doin* nothin' 
 with 'ee!" 
 
 Bessie took off her hat and threw it on the sofa, 
 annoyed that her exciting news had fallen flat 
 because her tongue had slipped. 
 
 " Now put 'e away I " cried Mrs Mollard. " I 
 thought when you was born I'd 'ave a comfort in 
 'ee ! But 'tis spiteful wickedness with 'ee all day 
 long ! " 
 
 Mr Mollard entered the kitchen at this moment, 
 and Bessie ran to him. 
 
 " Vather, only think I Grandfer to 'Postle Varm's 
 a-dyin'!" 
 
 " Dyin' be 'e ? Now theer'll be ructions ! That 
 theer Miah '11 be for marry in' o' the maid ; an' what 
 can a poor crazy like 'er be do ? " 
 
 Bessie flushed scarlet and tossed her head. 
 
 " Mr Sluman don't 'old wi' crazy maids like Cathie 
 be ! 'E likes 'em differ'nt ! " she muttered. 
 
 •* Grandfer was a quietsome neighbour/' said Mr 
 Mollard, seating himself and beginning to unlace his 
 heavy boots. " I'm sorry for 'ear he's nigh 'is end. 
 Decent, respectable, 'ard-workin' man 'e was ; but 
 'avin' no women-folk to fend for 'n drove un back- 
 
 
 ^1 ^4 I 
 
LINE UPON LINE, rRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 213 
 
 'ards. I mind the time when 'e used to tak* a score 
 o' pounds o' butter to market rc<,f'kir. Ol' Mrs 
 Tythycott was a honest, 'ard-vvorkin' body. 'Tvas 
 a evil day when he lost 'er. Annie waren't no sort 
 or kind o' use, poor soul ; an' as for the maid, I 
 mind when 'er comed up from Plymouth, after 'er 
 vather was drownded, 'er was an amazin' pretty 
 little me-aid — an' Grandfer 'e was clean mazed over 
 'er. Queer 'er shiidd o* gone crazed like ; but I 
 b'lieve Grandfer dotes on 'er same as ever ! Well, I 
 be sorry for 'ear poor ol' man's gwin ! Bes' ways go 
 over, mother, an' len' a han' ! " 
 
 Mrs Mollard turned round upon her husband. 
 
 " You listen now, Bob, if you please ! I've 'ad the 
 avil eye on me wunst, an' I don't put myself in's way 
 o't again, never no more ! Look to they pigs us 
 lost ! As fine a litter as ever I seed, an' as careful 
 a sow as ever farried — an' what did 'er do .^ Why, 'er 
 squat four of 'em — 'er as never squatted one in 'er life 
 afore! An' what happened to the nine as was lef'.^ 
 Didn' fits tak' two of un ? An' wasn' the third so 
 weakly us 'ad to do away wi' un .? That a-left us six ; 
 an' when they was comin' nigh market-time, didn' 
 one o' un fall in water-butt seven o'clock o' Sunday 
 night, when we was all to chapel, an' drowndcd her- 
 self? That was five — four of 'cm us sold, an' the 
 fifth us couldn' fatten, do what us would wi' un ! 
 'Ave 'ee forgot it? If 'ee 'ave, I aren't! An' I tell 
 'ce straight I b'ain't gwin ! Theer's Basie, too, gala- 
 wantin' over theer jus' as us a-cast the spell an' 
 
 !: 
 
214 
 
 'POSTLE FARNf. 
 
 ir 
 
 bring'th un back again ! Mind nic now if 'er aren't ! 
 I b'ain't no vuool ! I knows wheer the Davil be, an' 
 I avidcs un ! Them volks as 'as got a villum over 
 t'cyes o' un can please theirsels ! But to ask me 
 for go where avil eye is, I won't do't ; an' if Grandfer 
 can't die easy wi'out me, 'e mus' die 'ard, for I b'ain't 
 a-gwin nigh un, not though the judgment-day 
 clapped 'isself right down on the top o' me for't — 
 so theer ! " 
 
 "Easy, easy, 'oman, wi' yer tongue," said Mr 
 Mollard gently. 
 
 Mrs Mollard, as was her wont after an excite- 
 ment of this sort, sat down and, throwing her apron 
 over her head, began to cry. 
 
 "I'm sure," she sobbed, "no one can't say I wouldn' 
 be neighbourly wheer I could ! But I've my chil'ern 
 for think on; an' o* coorse. Bob, if 'ee wish it, 'ee 
 know I aren't gainsayed 'ee nothin'. I 'opes I knows 
 the Book wheer the 'oman be ordained to submection. 
 Whatever 'ee've telled me, Bob, I've always a-done 
 it. I mind thiccy 'oman as 'ad a canster in 'er 
 stomick, I went 'fore an* tended same as if it 'ad 
 a-been my own chil' ! 'Ee can't deny, Bob, what I've 
 always a-done my part ! " 
 
 " Ma-deear," said Mr Mollard, turning his eyes in 
 the direction of the supper-table. " I never denied 
 nothin' ! What've 'ee got vor zupper ? " 
 
 He sat down imperturbably good-humoured. 
 His wife's long oration was no more to him than the 
 happy twitter of swallows in the eaves. Indeed he 
 
 
LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 21$ 
 
 iren't ! 
 be, an' 
 Ti over 
 sk me 
 andfer 
 b'ain't 
 it-day 
 for't— 
 
 .id Mr 
 
 excite- 
 r apron 
 
 vouldn' 
 
 chil'ern 
 
 it, 'ee 
 
 knows 
 
 lection. 
 
 a-done 
 
 in 'er 
 
 it 'ad 
 
 lat I've 
 
 ;yes in 
 denied 
 
 joured. 
 an the 
 eed lie 
 
 vvoiild have missed her vohibility had she sudden !)• 
 become a silent woman. 
 
 The family gathered round the table — the rosy- 
 cheeked boys, the blue-eyed Hessie ; while the crow- 
 ing baby danced in its mother's tired arms. She 
 looked with proud eyes as she saw the plentiful 
 plates passed round, and back again for second 
 helpings. 
 
 " Don' 'em eat ! " she said to her husband. 
 "Johnny's got a master appetite!" 
 
 "Basic's all zo big 'cordin' to!" said Mr Mollard, 
 cramming his mouth with a large forkful of toad-in- 
 the-hole. 
 
 " Ees ; I was the same when I was a me-aid, an' 
 now 'tis only pickin' at ol' rummagy stuff what b'ain't 
 no use to one's in'ards like." 
 
 " Tak' a jug o' beer ; that'll vetch 'ee appetite ! " 
 said Mr Mollard, handing her his tankard. 
 
 " I don* never like for tak' sperit an' sichlike ; 
 but mebbe 'tis persumptious, zo I'll tak' a drop!" 
 said Mrs Mollard, raising her husband's tankard and 
 sipping a little. 
 
 " Pshaw !" he cried. "'Tain't no manner o' use, 
 'oman, for go smellin' oft ! Drink it down proper. 
 I shall 'ave to drench 'ee wi't, like us did ol* ' Wild- 
 a-go ' las* winter ! " 
 
 He made a feint of doing it, at which all the 
 children clapped their hands and laughed up- 
 roariously. 
 
 " Now, now, ma - deears ! " said Mr Mollard. 
 
 r! 
 
2l6 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 " You'm gettin' above ycrsclves ! You'm makkin* 
 noise 'nough for scare the pigs ! I've a-finished 
 now, mother. Give me the babby, an' ate a bit 
 yerself!" 
 
 He rose from the table and seated himself by the 
 fire, where he lit his evening pipe, and dandled 
 his baby, while the March wind rose outside and 
 shook the casement. But within was Peace and 
 Plenty and Contentment. 
 
ai; 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 Different was the interior of 'Postle Farm. 
 
 In the kitchen the man Miah sat counting his 
 chickens before they were hatched. 
 
 Upstairs Grandfer lay, leaving the chicken he had 
 hatched through long years of toil. 
 
 By his side sat his granddaughter, holding his 
 feeble hands, till her own life was drawn out. and 
 her teeth chattered with the cold. 
 The March wind blew, and howled, and whistled 
 "Tis a -most as if 'twas waitin' for carr' un 
 off! his granddaughter said beneath her breath as 
 a sudden blast, louder and fiercer than the last 
 threatened to blow the window in. "As i[ 'twas 
 a-howlin' for'n, an' was that impatienable, couldn' 
 wait no longer." 
 
 The rattling of the casement roused the old 
 man. 
 
 "I've a-got some'at partic'lar for zay, Cathie, ma- 
 deear," he said in a low voice, and speaking at long 
 intervals. « Go now 'fore to chimneypiece an' tak' 
 out one o' they 'inder bricks -'ee know I never 
 
2l8 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 I <: 
 
 I 
 
 4- 
 
 would let 'ee scour the vircpleace. Theer's a letter 
 thccr. Tak' thiccy over to's Lordship's to Upcott 
 Hall. Tak' it 'eeself — zee un 'ceself. Don't 'ee 
 let Miah know 'bout it. Slip out back way over 
 to Hall. 'Ear what 'ee saith when he read'th 
 yon letter. Bring a neighbour in when I'm gone, 
 ma-deear. 'Tis a lone me-aid, Loord A'mighty! 
 'Twasn't never noan o' my wills. Loord, I was 
 druv to't 1 " 
 
 Cathie groped under the fireplace, and after a 
 while she found a loosened stone. She pulled it out 
 with some difficulty, and the letter that had lain 
 underneath she placed in her bosom. ' 
 
 " Grand fer," she said, stooping over him, " I 
 dreamed o' thiccy letter." 
 
 " Dramed ? Ees, us be all drames more nor less," 
 said the old man feebly. "All drames. I mind 
 when I was a young un 'twadn* zo! Things 
 seemed mighty real then ; but now they'm drames, 
 all drames — only drames!" ■ 
 
 " Cathie, ma-deear," he said presently, " I wish I'd 
 a-done moore for 'ee. I never thought 'ee crazed. 
 I was proud on 'ee ! But some 'vays I couldn' get 
 anigh 'ee of le-ate years! Oh, Loord, I wish I'd 
 a-done moore vor the me-aid ! " 
 
 "'Ee've a-done 'ee part, Gandfer," she answered, 
 "an' God'U bless 'ee vor't!" , > 
 
 With these comfortin' words in his ears the old 
 man fell asleep. .: .. 
 
 Miah came stumbling upstairs to bed. 
 
 I 
 
 1! 
 
L letter 
 Upcott 
 »n't ee 
 y over 
 read'th 
 I gone, 
 lighty ! 
 I was 
 
 LINK UPON LINE. I'UECEPT UPON PKKCEPT. 219 
 
 " Ik' livin' yet ? " he inquired, tlirusting his head 
 in through the door. 
 
 Hut the girl was sleeping too. and did not 
 hear. 
 
 Miah looked at the two, and hesitated. Then he 
 shivered and went out. 
 
 ^'1 
 
 in 
 
 after a 
 i it out 
 ad lain 
 
 lim, "I 
 
 )r less," 
 I mind 
 Things 
 drames, 
 
 'hi 
 
 ■III 
 
 vish I'd 
 crazed, 
 dn' get 
 nsh I'd 
 
 i 
 
 swered, 
 the old 
 
II' 
 
 220 
 
 
 ■ * 
 
 r- 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 Grandfer died in the night, and Mrs Mollard 
 came over in the morning to do what she could. 
 She was too timid herself to touch the corpse, so 
 she brought over a friend who patted it into 
 shape, and left the ghastly thing to be pressed 
 ultimately into a coffin a size too small, which 
 Miah had obtained cheap from an undertaker, 
 who had made a mistake in a more particular 
 order, and had the awkward thing hanging on 
 his hands. 
 
 '* 'Tis a capital corffin," the man had said, tapping 
 it with his knuckles. " Good stout helem. I mad' 
 a mistake someways an' measured the ol' girl 
 wrong, an* they was that partic'lar they wouldn't 
 'ave it. Kep' the corpse 'angin' about, it did, too. 
 However, 'e's a bargain for you, if you like to 
 tak' un." 
 
 So Miah took him. He had always a fancy 
 for bargains. 
 
 " Got un a'ready ! " exclaimed the women, when 
 he drove up with the coffin in the butt. 
 
Mollard 
 le could, 
 orpse, so 
 1 it into 
 
 pressed 
 11, which 
 dertaker, 
 jarticular 
 iging on 
 
 I, tapping 
 
 I mad' 
 
 oi' girl 
 
 wouldn't 
 
 did, too. 
 
 I like to 
 
 a fancy 
 
 icn, when 
 
 LINE UPON LINE, PRKCEPT UPON PRECEPT. 221 
 
 "Ees. I ordered'n avore," said Miah, who wished 
 to pocket the money he had saved. 
 
 "What! avore 'e was dead ? " cried Mrs Mollard. 
 " Who ever ycrt tell o' such a thini,- ? " 
 
 "'E looks a bit shoort," said Widow l^eer, who 
 was a connoisseur in such matters. "Be zurc 
 Grandfer was a-measured right?" 
 
 "Ees," said Miah; "measured un meself." 
 
 There was a vast amount of talking when the 
 coffin was got upstairs, but Cathie remaii.ed 
 below. She had been chilled to death sitting up 
 with Grandfer, for he had sapped her young life, 
 and left her faint and dizzy. 
 
 Presently Miah and the two women came down- 
 stairs again, and Mrs Mollard turned to Grandfer's 
 chair, and was on the point of sitting down, when 
 Cathie said — 
 
 " Tak' care ; you'm a-sittin' on Grandfer." 
 
 Mrs Mollard screamed, and jumped away. 
 
 •' Oh dear, oh dear ! " she cried. " With a crazy 
 maid below-stairs, an' a coorpse up in chumber, my 
 in'ards be so jumped I dunno 'ow for bear meself 
 When I go up in chamber 'tis the coorpse, an' 
 when I come down 'tis the me-aid. Don't 'ee look 
 to me likey thiccy, Cathie!" she screamed. "Tak' 
 away these avil eyes o' yoiirn. Oh, Loord, save 
 us nc.v, 'er's lookin' to the baby!" 
 
 "I wouldn' rouse 'er," said Widow Beer, in an 
 undertone; "'er may turn on me an' tak' away my 
 repudiation." 
 
222 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 r i« 
 
 I 1i|' 
 
 M, ;?: 
 
 " I always telled Bob us didn' ought never to 
 'ave come," said Mrs MoUard, beginning to 
 whimper. " Men be that masterful ! An' zee 
 what's a-comin' of it all ! Grandfcr in thiccy cheer 
 just as I was gwin for sit on un — wi' my legs 
 dotty for't so much — which means, zure an' 
 zartain, the nextest coorpse what's a-took is me; 
 an' don* 'ee never zay as I didn' a-zay't when 
 the 'and o' death's upon me. Loord a' mercy on 
 us ! I'm gettin' that twitchy in my nerves I can't 
 a-bear myself 'ere no longer. I feel my 'in'ards 
 a-gvv^in away no bigger nor a pea, an' col' watter 
 a-rinnen down my back in streams, an' wracks in 
 my stumjick ! " 
 
 Cathie turned and looked at her. 
 
 "The water rinnen be Annie's baby as was 
 drownded. He's jus' standin' 'nigh 'ee. Theer! 
 theer ! Zee un .^ " 
 
 The woman gave a piercing shriek that rang 
 through the house, and, without waitincr to put on 
 her bonnet, she caught the baby in her a ids and 
 fled from the house. 
 
 " Loord A'mighty ! " cried Widow Beer, clapping 
 her hands to her head, " I b'lieve I be mos' skeered 
 meself!" 
 
 " 'Ave 'ee ever yert tell o' a ol' man what geeve 
 a *oman zome'at for 'en:elf an* zome'at for his 
 dotter, an* 'er kep' the both ? The 'oman was a 
 widder, I've yert tell, an' ** 
 
 But Widow Beer had caught up the clothes that 
 
LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 223 
 
 belonged to herself and Mrs Mollard, and had 
 made for the door, through which she passed with 
 all speed. 
 
 " Zure the me-aid's a witch," she muttered as she 
 stumbled down the steps. 
 
 Cathie smiled to herself as the door closed be- 
 hind Widow Beer. 
 
 " I've a-got the reeds o' mun now ! " she said. " I 
 can 'ave a cup o' tay in p'ace an' qui'tness ; an' if 
 Miah begins for worrit, why, I can get up over- 
 stairs an' sit 'long o* the coorpse, for he's skeert 
 on t* 
 
224 
 
 lU 
 
 i 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 
 >ni; 1 ■ 
 
 11 
 
 
 Poor old Grandfer's funeral was a melancholy 
 affair. 
 
 The mourners were but few. The Devon damp 
 dripped from the tombstones, and made the air 
 heavy and unwholesome. 
 
 One little wizened old man, with white hair, came 
 hurrying with a shuffling step to the graveside. 
 Cathie's dark eyes pierced him through and 
 through. When the service was over, she said 
 to him — 
 
 " Good arternoon ! " and the old man bowed, 
 and shuffled off hastily. 
 
 "Who be *e?" inquired Miah. 
 
 " I met un to 'torney's when I was a little maid," 
 said Cathie. 
 
 "Met'n to 'torney's.?" cried Miah. 
 
 Then it occurred to him to follow the stranger. 
 
 When he reached the road down which Grandfer 
 had driven with Polly the Thursday before he 
 took Cathie to market, he knew the chances were 
 he would pass under the ivied gateway through 
 
LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 225 
 
 }'.' 
 
 ;holy 
 
 lamp 
 e air 
 
 came 
 
 ^side. 
 
 and 
 
 said 
 
 ►wed, 
 
 aid," 
 
 er. 
 
 dfer 
 
 : he 
 
 kvere 
 
 )ugh 
 
 
 wliich the flanks of Polly had disappeared. He 
 quickened his steps, overtook the stranger, and, 
 outdistancing him, entered a roadside inn. 
 
 "Who be this a-dagglin' 'long the roo-ad?" he 
 inquired of the host, peering, as he spoke, over 
 the muslin blind in the bar-room. 
 
 The host glanced out, and replied — 
 
 " Mr Pringwood — valett, and subsequentially 
 butler, to Hupcott 'AH for two-an'-forty years." 
 
 "Ah!" said Miah, in the same tone as he had 
 ejaculated the same syllable six years before when 
 Polly's white flanks had disappeared beneath the 
 ivied tower of Upcott Hall. 
 
 Then, calling for an extra glass, he wended his 
 way back to 'Postle Farm. 
 
 He expected to find Cathie there before him, 
 but this was not the case. He waited up till 
 past twelve ; then, in despair, he went to bed. 
 
 When he rose the next morning he looked about 
 eagerly for her, hoping that during the night she 
 had returned ; but through the whole of the day 
 she remained invisible. 
 
 Miah had thought when Grandfer died his oppor- 
 tunity would come. It was the thought of this 
 that had made him keep his attentions to Bessie 
 well under control. Cathie, the inheritor of old 
 Grandfer's savings, was the match for him if he 
 could get her, and Grandfer did not linger on too 
 long. 
 
 Her disappearance disturbed him. He wondered 
 
 P 
 
226 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 mii i 
 
 whether anything had happened to her, — whether, 
 in her wanderinj^s, the strong current of the river 
 had swept her away. 
 
 Then he decided she was making a move in that 
 mysterious history of hers. How could he get to 
 the bottom of it } What was her history ? Was 
 it merely the usual one ? Was there money in it ? 
 Was she really ignorant of that history? Had 
 Grandfer gone in silence to the tomb ? — that 
 silence which the ignorant believe is never broken ? 
 Or had Grandfer confided in the girl before he 
 died, and should he be able, with perseveiance, to 
 worm it out of her ? 
 
 He had not had much hope even at the first, 
 and now that Cathie had disappeared, of course 
 he had less than ever. Still, he could not help 
 clinging to the belief that Cathie had money 
 settled on her from some unknown source. In 
 any case, she had now inherited all Grandfer's toil- 
 some savings, and the farm, to the end of the 
 year, was hers, rent free. She was worth marry- 
 ing. But how could he marry her since she had 
 disappeared ? It was a sad predicament. 
 
 All that day passed without a sign of her. Sup- 
 posing something had happened to her.^ Then, 
 sure, as next of kin, he would come in for Grand- 
 fer's money. Or stay, the butler over at Upcott 
 Hall was a cousin of Grandfer's. He would be 
 counted the nearest of kin. The best plan, then, 
 would be to sell off as much of the stock as 
 
 ^s 
 
LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 227 
 
 Sup- 
 
 'hen, 
 Irand- 
 
 pcott 
 Id be 
 
 Ithen, 
 
 as 
 
 possible, and pocket the money, and make off 
 with it if necessary. He went to bed rejoicini]^ 
 at this thought. - 
 
 His joy, however, was short-lived, for at about 
 ten o'clock on Monday, just as his hope had 
 almost reached certainty, Mr Gingham Fox, 
 auctioneer and valuer, drove into the yard, and, 
 alighting from his trap, with a clerk and a note- 
 book, beckoned Miah, and desired, with official 
 brevity, to be conducted over the lands, out- 
 houses, and dwelling-house of 'Postle Farm. 
 
 Miah stared. 
 
 " Wheer's the me-aid ? " he inquired at last. 
 
 " How should I know ? " said the valuer, testily. 
 " I have come to value the crops and the stock, 
 not the maid ! " 
 
 Miah put his arms akimbo, and looked at the 
 valuer doggedly. 
 
 " I'm master 'ere," he said ; " you a-show me what 
 right 'ee've got for come 'long meddlin' wi' my 
 concarns ! " 
 
 " Show the paper," said Mr Gingham Fox, passing 
 with a business-like air to the pig-sties. 
 
 Miah could not read excepting plain print, but he 
 glared at the paper with an angry red face. 
 
 " 'Ee can vind out what 'ee will for 'ee self," he 
 said at last. " I b'ain't gwin for show 'ec ! " 
 
 The clerk hurried to his chief with the news. 
 
 " No matter," said he, producing a map ; " this will 
 serve." 
 
 II 
 
228 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 Miah slouched found after them, scowh'ng from 
 under this doorway and that. 
 
 " They pegs een's varder 'ouse be mine," he said 
 at a venture. " I bought'n to market o' Saturday." 
 
 But the valuer took no notice. 
 
 If Miah had not been a coward, it is probable, in 
 the fury of his baffled avarice, he would have thrown 
 himself on his tormentors. As it w?s, he merely 
 followed them at a distance, and when they had 
 driven out of the yard he killed the best pig, and 
 prepared to enjoy roast pork to the week's end. 
 
 A man, however, arrived in the afternoon, and, 
 paying him his week's wages, told him to seek work 
 elsewhere. 
 
 With oaths and curses Miah demanded an 
 explanation. 
 
 " Wheer's the me - aid ? " he kept repeating, 
 " thiccy avil-eyed witch } " 
 
 Finally he placed himself at the farmhouse door. 
 
 " I b'ai'nt gwin vor lave 'ere till I 'ear the rights 
 o't. If the me-aid be dade, these yer varm, an' all 
 what's on't is, be mine, an' I b'ain't a-gwin for budge 
 for no like you be ! " 
 
 A policeman settled the question two hours later, 
 and, cursing and swearing and violently abusive, 
 Miah was dragged from the farm. 
 
229 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII. 
 
 Lord Frobisher had finished dinner, and had 
 retired to his library. Cathie, who had her letter 
 to deliver, rang the bell at the front door. The 
 footman opened it. Had it been any one else but 
 Crazy Cathie there, he would have bidden her go 
 round to the back. But Crazy Cathie's evil eye 
 was too well known in the neighbourhood, and he 
 dared not offend her. He bade her be seated in 
 the hall. 
 
 As luck would have it, Pringwood had gone into 
 Upcott on business, or Cathie would never have 
 seen the squire. As it was, Brushwood entered the 
 library, and, going up to the hearthrug, addressed 
 his master respectfully. 
 
 " If you please, sir, a young woman has called 
 and wishes to see you." 
 
 " I see no one," Lord Frobisher answered. " Since 
 you have been in my service over two years, and 
 have not learnt this fact, you may take your month's 
 notice." 
 
 The man bowed. As he reached the door Cathie 
 
 i] 
 
i( 
 
 230 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 [m 
 
 i ': 
 
 ■ti !■ 
 
 m 
 
 m 
 
 pushed past him and entered. The footman put 
 out an arresting hand, but she gave him a defiant 
 glance from her fiery eye. The man, out of temper 
 at the loss of his situation, made no further effort 
 to stop her. He rather rejoiced at the thought oi 
 Lord Frobisher's annoyance. 
 
 Cathie came forward till she stood opposite the 
 squire. She had never curtseyed since her child- 
 hood, and she did not curtsey now. 
 
 Lord Frobisher was too much a gentleman to 
 show his anger ; but he flushed slightly. 
 
 "You have made a mistake, young woman," he 
 said ; " this is the wrong room for you." 
 
 " I've a letter for 'ee," said Cathie. " Go out, 
 young man," she added to Brushwood ; " this 'ere 
 business is private." ■; ^ ■'-■ ' 
 
 The footman hesitated, but receiving no command 
 from his master to stay, he withdrew. > 
 
 Lord Frobisher took the letter she held out to him. 
 
 *' I believe this concludes your business," he said, 
 turning to the bell. But Cathie stayed him. 
 
 •* I want 'ee for read it now," she said. 
 
 " That is quite unnecessary," replied Lord 
 Frobisher. " The answer can be sent to you." 
 
 "Read it now!" she repeated. •. v; : / , 
 
 And Lord Frobisher, because he was old perhaps, 
 and any violent assertion of his will was attended 
 by serious results, or because the power of the girl 
 was great, or because, perhaps, a doubtful past had 
 taken some of his courage from him, obeyed. 
 
.ord 
 
 LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 23 1 
 
 He placed his pince-nez on his nose, wincing a 
 little as he did so, for he hated to own his natural 
 force abated. Bending towards the lamp, he glanced 
 over the letter with the intention of satisfying the 
 girl by the promise of a favourable answer ; but 
 before he had got over a couple of words he began 
 to tremble violently. Twice he tried to speak ; 
 twice he failed. 
 
 At last he hissed out, while his hands gripped 
 the arm of his chair till they were white and 
 numb — ... 
 
 " It's false ! its false ! Damn your impertinence ! 
 I say it's false ! By God, I'll have you put into 
 confinement for a madwoman I There's no truth 
 in this!" 
 
 Then the face of Cathie changed. She was a 
 tall woman, but she grew taller. She was absolutely 
 ignorant of the contents of the letter, but she remem- 
 bered Grandfer's dying words. She felt within her- 
 self that a crisis in her life had come. 
 
 Lord Frobisher, peering at her through the general 
 gloom that pervaded the room, could see her only 
 indistinctly. In his anxiety to see her more plainly 
 he attempted to tear off the dark shade that covered 
 the lamp, and which was put on to throw the 
 strongest light possible on his book or paper — it 
 was alwa^ys the lamp with him that was dim and not 
 his sight. But the shade was heavy, and he had to 
 take two shaking hands. 
 
 Very slowly, with his weak fingers, he raised the 
 
 
 h* 
 
 i 1 
 
fill'' 
 
 ■ } 
 
 iii 
 
 !k A. 
 
 232 
 
 'rOSTLE FARM. 
 
 shade, and the light became more and more general, 
 almost like the dawning of a day. 
 
 When the shade was off he looked up. The 
 powerful light streamed on the beautiful face and 
 figure of the girl as she stood motionless, haughtily 
 regarding the man who had dared to accuse her dead 
 grandfather of lying. 
 
 When Lord Frobisher's eyes fell upon her, not 
 being a woman, no sound came from him, but his 
 jaw dropped, and his face turned an ashen grey. 
 
 Cathie perceived at once the advantage was 
 now on her side, though the reason she could not 
 divine. The man before her as in abject terror. 
 While he was in terror hers ^^ le advantage, and 
 she did not move for fear of dispelling it. 
 
 At length Lord Frobisher gasped in ? low voice, 
 dry and hard as the speech of an automaton, yet 
 intensely distinct — 
 
 " Are you a living woman ? " Then smiting his 
 hand to his forehead, " God help me, it's she ! It's 
 she ! " 
 
 He sank into his chair, but only for a moment. 
 With a despairing effort he rose and unlocked his 
 secretaire, hastily catching up a pile of bank-notes. 
 
 " If it's a spirit — we shall see — we shall see " 
 
 he kept muttering. " A spirit hath not flesh and 
 blood — it won't take bank-notes!" 
 
 He looked over his shoulder. 
 
 " Still there," he muttered. 
 
 Then the woman in Cathie's heart spoke. 
 
LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PKK( EI'T. 233 
 
 eral, 
 
 The 
 
 and 
 
 htily 
 
 dead 
 
 , not 
 It his 
 jrey. 
 ; was 
 d not 
 terror. 
 ;e, and 
 
 1 . 
 ^ voice, 
 
 n, yet 
 
 ng 
 
 his 
 
 ! It's 
 
 3ment. 
 ed his 
 otes. 
 
 h and 
 
 " Coorsc I be ! " she said, with the humouring 
 tenderness one uses towards children. " What did 
 'ee s'pose ? I be a woman right 'nough — Icastaways 
 I s'pose I be — I never yert tell no other." 
 
 " Can you keep a secret ? — will this help you ? " he 
 said eagerly, holding out the bank-notes to her, and 
 thrusting them into her hand. 
 
 Cathie had no secret to keep. She had never 
 received of charity. Her first impulse was to throw 
 the bank-notes in his face, but something stayed her. 
 She took them quietly. 
 
 "When thepe are gone there are more," he said 
 with a distressing eagerness. 
 
 Cathie nodded and moved to the door. When 
 she got outside, she walked home thoughtfully. 
 
 " Theer's a purpose in't," she said to herself. " Now 
 what be 't? I'd like for know. Theer's some'at 
 ahind — some'at I never thought on, nor can't think 
 on now nether. * When these arc gone there are 
 more.' Well, never mind. Crazy Cathie can mind 
 'er own geese 1 " 
 
 That night, when Pringwood came back, he was 
 summoned to his master's presence. He came in 
 suspecting the truth, for Brushwood had told him 
 something of what had transpired during the evening. 
 When he met the old man's fiery eye, he knew there 
 was trouble in store. 
 
 The two looked at each other, the master from 
 the arm-chair, out of which he had twice vainly 
 
 1 1 
 
234 
 
 'rOSTLE FARM. 
 
 it H \ 
 
 IS' 
 
 ? I ' 
 
 I, 
 
 striven to rise. He tried to speak, but the jaw only 
 worked convulsively, and a little foam dropped from 
 the lip. 
 
 " You villain ! " he hissed at last ; " you villain 1 
 Leave my sight and never return ! " 
 
 The old servant threw himself on his knees. 
 
 " Sir ! sir ! " he cried. " Yer lordship ! Think of 
 God Almighty ! Think of the Judgment Seat ! 
 No 'arm b'ain't come to 'ee through it, an' less o' 
 hell hereafter ! Tak' It easy, my lord ; tak' it easy ! 
 You'll bring 'eeself to 'arm ! Oh, tak' it easy, my 
 lord ! Don't be hard on me ! I done it for the 
 best ! " 
 
 He leant forward and gently stroked the withered 
 hand of his master with his own withered fingers. 
 
 " I'm all 'ee've a-got left, my lord ! Don't 'ee go 
 for be angered with me ! " 
 
 Then rising to his feet, and raising his hand to 
 heaven — 
 
 " I swear to God I'm thankful I done it ! An' you 
 may order me away, but I'll never leave 'ee ! Your 
 secrets is my secrets." Then, speaking in a rapid 
 undertone, and gathering intensity with every word, 
 " When the las' dread hour comes, my lord, an' you 
 come to face your Maker, you'll thank me yet ! An' 
 you dursrUt send me from you ! Think, my lord, 
 when your mind's fitful like, an' the words burst 
 from 'ee that 'ee've kep' dark these seventeen year 
 an' more, who'll 'earken an' never tell, but me? 
 No, my lord, 'ee can't do wi'out me ; an' yer know," 
 
w only 
 d from 
 
 (villain ! 
 
 tiink of 
 Seat! 
 less o' 
 it easy ! 
 isy, my 
 for the 
 
 withered 
 gers. 
 t 'ee go 
 
 hand to 
 
 An' you 
 ! Your 
 a rapid 
 ry word, 
 , an' you 
 et ! An' 
 my lord, 
 ds burst 
 een year 
 but me? 
 ;r know," 
 
 LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 335 
 
 he finished, with a sob, "W I'd die for 'cc ' 
 Aren't I lived a life as foreign to my natur' as sun- 
 shine is to night ? An' why? For love of 'ee, my 
 lord, for love of 'ee ! The very milk o' human kind- 
 ness as froze in my blood for love of 'ee, my lord 
 for love of 'ee ! I've counted all the goodness I learnt 
 to my mother's knee as dung that I might serve 'ee 
 the better-an' all for love of ee, my lord, for love of 
 ee ! Tak' back the cruel words that I mus' leave 
 ee--.for ,f I leave 'ee at all, 'tis my dead body they 
 mus carry over threshold, for I'll cling to 'ee yet in 
 
 He threw himself at his master's feet, and his lon^ 
 tearless sobs filled the heavy silence. 
 
 A thousand conflicting emotions chased themselves 
 over the master's face. One moment loathing, spurn- 
 ing, fierce hatred ; the next, desolation, fear, bitter- 
 ness. Then slowly the face settled into calm. 
 
 When the old man ventured at length to raise 
 himself, there was one slow tear on the master's 
 cheek. 
 
f I 
 
 2^6 
 
 It; 
 
 r 
 
 II 
 
 "1^ 
 
 CHAPTER XLVIII. 
 
 The same night of Grandfer's funeral Cathie had 
 turned up at the old schoolhouse. She came in a cart, 
 and before any one had time to interfere, she had 
 ordered the carrier to carry her large oak chest 
 and various parcels, and deposit them inside the 
 cottage verandah. 
 
 Madge and Cocksey both rushed out. 
 
 " I be gwin for stay ( -^g o' you," said Cathie, 
 calmly. 
 
 Madge turned aside to hide her laughter, while 
 Miss Scottie took the girl's hand and patted it in 
 order to gain time for thought. The sight of a 
 large red and white bundle being deposited on the 
 doorstep upset Madge so much that she ran away to 
 have her laugh out behind the kitchen door. The 
 i'*jer calmness of the whole proceeding struck her as 
 quite too funny ; and poor Cocksey's helpless dis- 
 comfiture delig-ited her. 
 
 Miss Scottie continued to pat Cathe's hand, and 
 to see with the rest of the world that of course 
 she was crazy. 
 
LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 237 
 
 Then Cathie suddenly said, « P'raps, though 'ee 
 don't want me ! " and Miss Scottie, being at best an 
 impulsive, compassionate soul, took both Cathie's 
 hands between her own and cried— 
 
 " My dear, of course we want you ! We want you 
 very much ! " 
 
 Then she saw what perhaps no one but Temple 
 had seen since the days of Cathie's childhood- 
 soft human tears spring into her defiant eyes. 
 
 She turned away abruptly. 
 
 "That's my chesty!" she said, nodding at the 
 gaunt old chest that held all the best of her earthly 
 belongings. «I would a -stayed to 'Postle Varm 
 if It 'adn't a-been for bein' of a scholard. I mus' be 
 a scholard ! " 
 
 "What is becoming of the farm, my dear?" 
 " Well, I dunno zac'ly. I thought mebbe 'ee could 
 think on some'at." 
 
 Here Madge arrived, looking rather red in the 
 face. 
 
 " Very glad to see you, Cathie." she said. 
 Cathie looked doubtful. 
 
 "Well, someways I was a - drawed here" she 
 said. ' 
 
 " Cathie has left 'Postle Farm ! " said Cocksey. 
 " Who has taken it on ? " 
 
 "No one aren't. No one won't 'fore Lady 
 Day ! " ^ 
 
 Then Madge caught Cocksey by the arm 
 "/will!", he said. 
 
 V 
 
238 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 And Cocksey fell back on the sofa more dead 
 than alive, while Cathie burst into tears. 
 
 " Oh ! " she cried, " my 'eart's a-bound up in un ! 
 If 'ee'll but let me milky an' tend the pigs an' 
 poultry, I'll be scholard atvveen whiles, an' I won' 
 ask no wages ! " 
 
 ;!•;) 
 
 
dead 
 
 i un ! 
 
 5 an' 
 
 won' 
 
 229 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 No sooner said than done. Madge never let the 
 grass grow under her feet. A valuer, as we have 
 seen, was speedily despatched to Tostle Farm, and 
 in a few days' time Cathie had a nice little 'sum 
 in the bank beside her grandfather's savings. 
 
 Before moving into the house, it was necessary to 
 have painters and masons at work. Madge was in 
 a wild state of excitement. Her first view of 'Postle 
 Farm delighted her. She could wish for nothing 
 better than to end her days there, she said. 
 
 Meanwhile Cathie stayed on in the little cottage 
 till 'Postle Farm should be fit to receive them. She 
 studied every morning with Miss Scottie. In the after- 
 noon she always disappeared. And they did not ask 
 her where she went— they let her have her freedom 
 
 " Poor ol' Grandfer ! " said Cathie one day, as she 
 opened her lesson-books. 
 
 " We were so sorry to hear you had lost him " 
 said Miss Scottie. ' 
 
 " I an't lost 'im ! 'e be 'ere 'bout as usual ! " 
 " Surely he's buried by now ? " 
 
240 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 
 •■■^i 
 
 " Ees, he's buried. They may dig dark 'oles for 
 folk an' stick mun in, but, bless 'ee life, they don't 
 stay theer ! " 
 
 But Miss Scottie was nothing if not conscientious. 
 It was not right to allow the girl to remain ignorant. 
 Accordingly in the evening she asked her — 
 
 " Cathie, what makes you think your grandfather 
 is not in his grave } " 
 
 But Cathie remained obstinately silent. 
 
 One afternoon Miss Scottie and Madge had been 
 to see how 'Postle Farm was progressing. 
 
 "Suppose," said Miss Scottie, as they neared 
 Stibb Farm, " we call in here ? They might throw 
 some light on Cathie, because she really does seem 
 queer sometimes." 
 
 Mrs MoUard curtseyed when the smart little pony- 
 carriage drove up to her door, and dusted a chair for 
 her visitor. There was nothing she more enjoyed 
 than a visit from the gentry. Miss Scottie was not a 
 great adept at leading conversation into a deserted 
 channel. But their neighbour's death was naturally 
 uppermost in the thoughts of the Mollards. 
 
 " I do trusty, now," said Mrs Mollard, " 'us 'ill 'ave 
 volks as is more neighbourly nor what they was. 
 Theer waren't nothin' neighbourly 'bout mun. 
 They was so lonesome like they skeered volks. 
 Poor ol' Grandfer, back along when Master brought 
 un over 'ere first, 'e was a kind an' neighbourly ol' 
 man ; but 'e turned off queerish. 'E took in's 'ead 
 volk was inquisitive, an' I'm sure more nor neigh- 
 
 11 111 
 
LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 24 1 
 
 S for 
 don't 
 
 tious. 
 jrant. 
 
 father 
 
 I been 
 
 leared 
 
 throw 
 
 3 seem 
 
 pony- 
 
 lair for 
 
 joyed 
 
 not a 
 
 serted 
 
 urally 
 
 till 'ave 
 
 was. 
 
 mun. 
 
 volks. 
 
 |rought 
 
 irly ol' 
 
 's 'ead 
 
 neigh- 
 
 
 hourly interest I never took in nobody. But Miah 
 'e was always — well, excuse me for sayin' of it — but 
 'e was always a avil-lookin' feller ; an' as for the 
 me-aid — well, 'er was the wust o' the lot o' mun ! " 
 
 " What was the matter with the maid ? " asked 
 Miss Scottie. "Do you mean Cathie?" 
 
 " Ees, the very same, ma'am ! Oh, well, 'er was 
 kind o' crazed like, volk said, but whether 'twas 
 true or no I relly couldn' zay — volk does talk up ol' 
 rummage — an' that's what they telled about 'er!" 
 
 " Well, she was a near neighbour of yours. You 
 would have been the best judgf as to her being 
 crazy," said Miss Scottie. 
 
 " Well, yes, 'er was a neighbour, us might zay ; 
 but relly I never zeed the mc-aid — 'er was out an* 
 'bout — us never 'ad no intermixtions. I couldn' zay 
 whether theer was truth in't or no, I'm sure." 
 
 Bless you, your peasant proper is not going to 
 divulge his heart beliefs to you on a first visit, nor 
 yet on a second ! It would take many a long 
 year before Mrs Mollard could feel sufficient con- 
 fidence to throw her own explanation on the sub- 
 ject of Cathie's craziness to any one outside her 
 own class. 
 
 She wandered on to other subjects now, and Miss 
 Scottie, nervous in her effort to bring the conversa- 
 tion back to Cathie, and fearful of out - staying 
 Madge's patience, speedily withdrew. 
 
 Madge took a common-sense view of the case. 
 
 " She isn't crazy," she said. " She's only original." 
 
 Q 
 
 ! 
 i 
 
242 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 
 
 m'i 
 
 One evening, about a fortnight later, Mrs Mollard 
 was taking the bread out of the oven, when a voice 
 said — 
 
 "Where's Bessie?" 
 
 When she turned she could see no one. She ran 
 to the door and looked out. Not a soul was in 
 sight. Then Mrs Mollard wrung her hands. 
 
 " 'Tis a sign ! " she cried. " 'Tis a sign ! Sure as 
 fate, the maid'll be took for death 'fore the year's 
 out 1 " 
 
 When her husband came in, she told him. 
 
 "Wull, wheer is'er?" 
 
 " I dunno ! " 
 
 " Wull, why didn't 'ee look ? " 
 
 " I never thought on't ! " 
 
 *"Ee only fancied 'ee yert it," said Mr Mollard, 
 comfortably ; " that's what 'twas ! " 
 
 But Mrs Mollard was quite positive, and, as a 
 result, she was extremely vigilant. 
 
 The next time she noticed Bessie going out, she 
 said nothing, but she followed her. Keeping care- 
 fully out of sight, she saw a man presently coming 
 across the field, and as he Jrew nearer she recognised 
 Miah. 
 
 They stopped close together in the pathway, and 
 then they went forward, with Miah's arm round 
 Bessie's waist. Then the mother was furious. She 
 raised her voice angrily and called Bessie back ; and 
 that night there was a stormy scene in the usually 
 peaceful kitchen at Stibb Farm. 
 
LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 243 
 
 Mrs Mollard, as she sat sadly discussing the 
 subject with her husband, kept repeating— 
 
 " Well, I know one thing, Cathie 'ath bewitched 
 'er ! I know my poor maid wouldn' never tak' up 
 wi* a ol' slouchin 'ulk o' a great feller like thiccy 
 Miah be, wi'out er was bewitched. It's all along o' 
 that wicked me-aid ! 'Er don' come to 'arm 'erself, 
 'er be that cute ! 'Er's maisterful all the while some 
 poor other body shall come to devilment ! I'm sure 
 I wish 'twadn't wicked for weesh 'er out o' world ! 
 An' I don' b'lieve 'tis, nether ; an' I do a-weesh 'er 
 out o't, an' ol' Nick joy o' 'er, I do ! I do ! My poor 
 little innercent me-aid, what 'arm 'er might a' come 
 to wi' thiccy feller to 'usband ! If it 'adn't a-been I 
 was kind o' wracksled in my min' I shouldn' never 
 a' discovered it, an' 'e might a' took an' marr'ed 'er 
 whether us willed or no. Oh, that Cathie ! I know 
 'tis all along o' 'er, for I meeted 'er eye o' Zaturdey ! 
 
 Thus do we misinterpret our best blessings, and 
 call them curses ! 
 
 Mr Mollard sighed heavily, and they went upstairs 
 slowly to bed, the wife carrying the baby, and the 
 man in his stockinged feet so as not to wake the 
 sleeping children. 
 
544 
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 
 " I MUS' be dressed proper," said Cathie that 
 same evening, when Miss Scottie and Madge re- 
 turned. '"Ow do 'ee get 'ee things for fit. These 
 'ere now," touching Madge's well-fitting coat, " 'an't 
 got so much as a creasy in 'un ! You show me 
 some'at what I can buy an' clothey myself in ! " 
 
 "I am so glad you want to be tidy!" said Miss 
 Scottie, almost with tears in her eyes. " If you 
 live with Miss Montague, you must try and always 
 look nice." 
 
 " Zo I will ! " said Cathie, heartily. 
 
 The next day Cathie went into Upcott for the 
 purpose of stocking herself with clothes. She went 
 to the dressmaker first to be tried on. 
 
 " You mus' mak' 'un for fit," she said. 
 
 "We can easy do that, Miss Tythycolt, with a 
 figure like yours," replied the dressmaker, puttini^ 
 her head on one side, as she fixed in a pin. 
 
 It was the first time in her life Cathie had ever 
 been called Miss Tythycott. 
 
 v, \ 
 
LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 245 
 
 e that 
 Ige re- 
 
 Thesc 
 , " 'an't 
 low me 
 ■ in!" 
 id Miss 
 If you 
 
 always 
 
 for the 
 
 le went 
 
 with a 
 
 putting 
 
 1. 
 
 id ever 
 
 " Miss Tythycott ! " she repeated, with a little 
 laugh. " Lor', what a name it be ! I mos' fori^ot 
 I'd a-got 'un!" 
 
 "I understand you're quite an heiress?" said the 
 dressmaker amiably. 
 
 " I've 'nough for pay for 'ee," said Cathie, nodding 
 at the cloth dress. "I dun no as 'ow what's over an' 
 above is a matter what concarns 'ec." 
 
 "Certainly not!" said the dressmaker, a little 
 piqued. 
 
 When Cathie had been carefully fitted, she went 
 to the bootmaker's. 
 
 " 'Ere's as nice a pair o' bootses as you'd zee from 
 now to Michaelmas ! " said Mr Pedlar, producing a 
 pair of thick farm ones, and tapping the soles with 
 pride. 
 
 "My dear zoul!" cried Cathie, turning away in 
 disgust. " Tak' 'em away I Give's a pair o' gloss 
 kid shoesies ! " 
 
 The bootmaker stared a moment. 
 
 "The glac6-kid a'n't got no wear in 'em, 'ee 
 know," he said. " Betterment volk wears 'em 
 mos'ly ; but," with a pitying smile, " bless yer 
 'eart, thcy'm foolish, 'ee know — they'm foolish. 
 Money to they b'ain't no hobstacle ! They'm got 
 it for spend, an' they spends it — that's all the good 
 'tis to mun — for spend. 'Tain't for use, 'tain't for 
 sarvice, 'tis for spend. An' what's us do? Us 
 supplies 'em with glacies an' sichlike unendur- 
 ables, an' they wears mun an' buys more. But 
 
fur use now — for rey com mend for frien's — give me 
 a good strong calvy-lcather, wi' iron bands to 'eel, 
 an' a cap to toe o' mun, an' there you be proper 
 fixed up ! " 
 
 "Go 'long, my dear!** said the bootmaker's wife, 
 who had now come into the shop, attracted by 
 curiosity. " 'Tain't that kind o' thing the young 
 leddy wants at all ! Fetch out them smoothy- 
 leathered, wi' the siller buckles to mun ; theym's 
 the soort Miss Tythycott wants. 'Tis Miss Tythy- 
 cott, b'ain't it.^ Ees; I thought — I thought 'twas. 
 You know, Da, over to Tostle's } You've a-come 
 In for quite a middlin' lot o' money, I un'erstan' ? 
 Gen'elmen dor,' un'erstan' as 'ow, when a leddy's 
 got money, 'er likes for spend it. Fetch out they 
 shocsies ' -'th the siller buckles. Da. There, now!" 
 she cried, holding them out to view at arm's 
 length, " Only look to mun ! Now, relly, they be 
 so delicate like, so gentryfied as might say, b'ain' 
 'em now ? Tak* away the farm clouts now, Da. 
 Miss Tythycott don't want none such ! " 
 
 By the time Cathie had made the round of the 
 Upcott trades - people she was well and neatly 
 dressed, and where her own taste failed Miss 
 Scottie and Madge helped. All her being surged 
 towards the thought of muking herself a suitable 
 wife for Temple, and it was astonishing how 
 naturally she bore herself in her new clothes, and 
 how quick she was to catch the ways and manners 
 of Miss Scottie and Madge. Unlike many an- 
 
 IC. 
 
LINE UPON IJNE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 24; 
 
 other rustic beauty, she was not spoilt l.y con- 
 ventional clothes, and Mad^rc said ruefully— 
 
 "The end of it all will bc-I shall be taken for 
 her, and she will be taken for me." 
 
 Strangers, when they met her, turned to look ; 
 and one young man—a bicyclist of course— was 
 audacious enough to pretend he had lost his way, 
 and stopping, raised his cap, asking— 
 
 " I beg your pardon, is this the Upcott road ? " 
 And when she answered in that wonderful soft- 
 tongued rolling Devonshire of hers, he almost 
 turned pale with astonishment as he hurried off 
 in the wrong direction to the one she had in- 
 dicated, so taken aback was he. 
 
 At last 'Postle Farm was ready to receive them 
 and they migrated thither, Miss Scottie, Mad^e 
 and Catherine. * 
 
 

 — CMWl—— ■■■■f 
 
 2<t8 
 
 CHAPTER LI. 
 
 It! 
 
 if! 
 
 In 
 
 
 Ft *'! 
 
 "This waiting for dead men's shoes is a melan- 
 choly kind of business," said Temple to himself. 
 " The old fellow had no business to make me 
 sell out of the army. What a good-for-nothing 
 existence mine is, with never a will of my own — 
 never sure that my plans won't clash with his. 
 And ever since that affair with Cathie I feel as 
 miserable cis a bandicoot — whatever that is, — I'm 
 damned if I know ! Years perhaps o'l waiting, 
 during which time I can do nothing without ex- 
 citing suspicion, even if I had the necessary funds, 
 which I haven't. There she is one side of the 
 water, and there I am the other — that's the nearest 
 we ever are : more often it's two hundred miles 
 apart. What's going to be the end of it all, that's 
 what puzzles me. God knows, I love her ! And 
 yet — the future } " 
 
 He paced up and down the club-room. 
 
 Wouldn't it be better after all to break it off 
 with her.? and yet he couldn't. 
 
 He flung himself into a chair and closed his 
 
LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 249 
 
 mclan- 
 limself. 
 ke me 
 lothing 
 own — 
 ith his. 
 feel as 
 s, — I'm 
 aiting, 
 ut cx- 
 funds, 
 of the 
 nearest 
 miles 
 1, that's 
 ! And 
 
 it off 
 
 5ed his 
 
 eyes, and the old farm stood before him. How 
 well he knew it under every aspect. When the 
 dark clouds scudded overhead, and the rain beat 
 against its grey walls ; when the sunlight flooded 
 all ihe landscape, and left it frowning still ; when 
 the leaves on the elm trees turned yel'ow, and 
 the sea-gulls flew up from the river white as snow 
 against the black horizon ; when the great barn 
 doors gaped open, and the golden carts of corn 
 were swallowed into the darkness, and the rich 
 grain was garnered. But, best of all, he knew it 
 when the sun was setting, and the outline of the 
 Upcott hills crept .slowly upward on the other 
 side like an all-embracing thought that takes 
 possession of the mind. He knew exactly how 
 the sunlight looked when it caught the trunks of 
 the twelve elm trees, till they shone like silver, 
 leaving all the upper limbs in mystic darkness ; 
 and how the long length of the chimney grew 
 across the roof, and all the farther side was lost in 
 gathering gloom, as if Mother Nature had breathed 
 on half the mirror and left a cloudland on it. 
 Yes ; he knew it every inch, and he loved it every 
 inch, and the beautiful girl within it. Only he 
 wanted her as a kind of dreamland, an idyll in 
 his life, a beautiful summerland that should never 
 stale with custom, nor grow weary under a noon- 
 day sun ; a summerland that should be visited 
 only when his heart was in tune, and should 
 never have the fierce light of criticism thrown 
 
M a 
 
 250 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 upon it by an influx of sordid people of the 
 world who could never understand, and who, his 
 inmost soul told him, would influence him in spite 
 of himself. He wanted to lead two lives — an 
 Arcadian life and a conventional life ; and he 
 could not see how the two could be combined. 
 And so he fretted out his existence until his next 
 recall to Upcott. 
 
 There had been a good deal of fretting in 
 Cathie's life too, since she had seen him last. She 
 had thought to live at 'Postle's Farm would be 
 the dream of her life. But somehow now it was 
 different. She missed the old man who had never 
 spoken a harsh word to her. He was gone from 
 the ingle-nook, and her heart was heavy for him. 
 A certain reverent tolerance had alwa/s marked 
 his attitude towards her, and though she had 
 heeded it little while she had it, it left a gaping 
 wound now it was gone. Her effort to check the 
 roughness of her speech, and to mind her manners, 
 was a constant drag on her impulsive spirit, and 
 the loss of her freedom at times almost maddened 
 her. She had her duties to perform, and she was 
 expected to perform them at stated times, at 
 regular intervals. There was no running out on 
 the grassy upland when the spirit moved her ; no 
 creeping softly to her "best parlour" and taking 
 out her violin to charm away the loneliness, or 
 to satisfy her yearning for all that was beautiful, 
 elevated, and refined. The " best parlour " was 
 
of the 
 vho, his 
 
 in spite 
 es — an 
 
 and he 
 )mbined. 
 his next 
 
 itting in 
 ist. She 
 /ould be 
 w it was 
 ad never 
 Dne from 
 
 for him. 
 ; marked 
 
 she had 
 a gaping 
 :heck the 
 
 manners, 
 pirit, and 
 maddened 
 i she was 
 
 times, at 
 ig out on 
 i her ; no 
 nd taking 
 eliness, or 
 
 beautiful, 
 bur" was 
 
 UNK UPON L,KE, rKKCKLT UPON PRECEPT. 35, 
 not hers to use now. and she shrank from pl^yi,,. 
 before strangers, because tl,e viohn was l"r hea •! 
 mus,e, ,t was part of herself and she was no . 
 
 to crave sympathy. '' ^'><= W"*^ too proud 
 
 One day when she had been told off to do th 
 household tasks she hated and despised, h.d 
 denly stamped her foot, and, flin,i„.. do.™ 
 dust-pan and brush at Miss Scottie^ terrifi d ^ 
 she exclaimed— ^tmned feet, 
 
 "I b'ain't a-gwin for do it then f T ^ > 
 want yer ol' wages' Wh.f- '^°" ^ 
 
 can J, ' u ^'' '''^^^^ to me? I 
 
 can get nough, an' more'n 'nouc>h wi'onf . , • . 
 for't T tf^llori ' r , ^"' ^viout vvorkin 
 
 orr. 1 telled ee from the first 'twas a ^rh .1 i 
 I wanted for be ' A-woH-m' > '''^^ "^ "^holard 
 L.t.. /iwoikin an' a-sweatin' mornin' 
 ,r„ an- „,,ht.-I te„ 'ee In, clean .ick ^^2^ 
 1 never so mucl, as wring another floor-c Lh , 
 
 .' ■" f " '°'- be a scholard, not a mucky ml 
 in a towzer apern ! " ^ me-aid 
 
 She swung out of the house, leaving poor Mi 
 Scottie .scandalised. ^^"S Poor Mtss 
 
 Angry bitter tears were in Cathie's eyes as sh. 
 iu;-ned along the hillside, longin, for the ,dd 
 
 when she was master of he.s?.ir1 ^' 
 
 .,io f 1 "(-'Self m every way for 
 
 ■'las ! she was no longer master of her heart 7 
 "■- cry„,g out all the wl,,le for Tnnple "d 7h 
 
 ,':: '' '- ^---' -- ■■" ''- pani^ui;^'!;:: 
 
 ".•,Ms, that she never perceived Teniule i„,til i 
 "-almost face to face wiU>hun. ""^'^ """' ^'"-- 
 
|i!<! 
 
 \k 
 
 I '" Ik 
 
 ir 
 
 1 'I 
 f 
 
 1 J 
 
 252 
 
 POSTLE FARM. 
 
 He held out his arms and took her to his heart. 
 It was the moment of her weakness. She cared 
 nothing at that moment for the future ; she wanted 
 only something to stanch the wounds in her heart 
 for the present. At that moment Cathie's future- 
 was in Temple's hand. She was tired out and 
 wearied in spirit ; hope deferred (for his coming had 
 been long) had made her heart sick. She could not 
 face the thought of life without him ; she was alone, 
 and in all the wide world there was none but he to 
 love her. 
 
 In a few broken words she told him of the dc.ith 
 of her grandfather and her altered circumstances. A 
 tide of colour flushed into his face and left him pale. 
 
 " There is nothing for it now, dear, but to give 
 yourself to me," he said unsteadily. "You know 
 that I love you, and will care for you all my life." 
 
 She was too tired to dispute. What did it matter? 
 As well lose his love in that way as in any other. 
 
 " I've a-tried to mak* a scholard for 'ee," she said 
 brokenly, " but life be all strivin', an' strugglin', an' 
 ugliness." 
 
 " We must go away where we are not known," he 
 said. " Life will be beautiful to us both yet. Listen ; 
 put together such things as you want, and dress 
 yourself so as not to attract notice, and I will meet 
 you here below, in the Salt Marsh, at — let me see— 
 it's two hours yet to flood-tide — at ten o'clock then 
 — not a moment later. Will you be there?" 
 
 Cathie bowed her head wearily. She felt no 
 
s heart. 
 ; cared 
 wanted 
 ;r heart 
 5 future 
 )ut and 
 ling had 
 )uld not 
 as alone, 
 >ut he to 
 
 he dc.ith 
 nces. A 
 lim pale. 
 ; to give 
 ou know 
 / life." 
 t matter? 
 other. 
 ' she said 
 Tglin', an' 
 
 nown," he 
 ;. Listen ; 
 and dress 
 will meet 
 : nie sec- 
 clock then 
 ?" 
 le felt no 
 
 LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 253 
 
 satisfaction in the prospect ; but the ni-ht vigils 
 with her dying grandfather, and her clisapp..intmcnt 
 at the same old tasks to be got through at 'Postle 
 Farm, Temple's long silence and his absence, had 
 told upon her health and spirits. 
 
 She watched Temple disappearing down the hill, 
 saw him unmoor his boat and land on the other side.' 
 Then she went back to the farm. She avoided the 
 inmates, and slipped in the back way to her room. 
 
 Poor Miss Scottie, with a very burnt face, was 
 trying to fry chops for tea, in the absence of her 
 wilful Abiq^ail. 
 
 "It's much more fun without Cathie, really," sai 
 Madge. "I wish she'd go. She always lo'rds it 
 over us, as if the place still belonged to her. Per- 
 haps she will go, and then it will be ripping fun, 
 Cocksey ; we shall do everything for ourselves r' 
 
 "If I'd only learnt cooking in my youth .'"groaned 
 Cocksey. "These chops seem quite black outside 
 and quite red in ! " 
 
 " Ugh ! I hate underdone meat ! After all, I wish 
 Cathie would come in. It's too bad to leave us quite 
 in the lurch like this ! " 
 
 Cathie was upstairs putting her {gw things to- 
 gether. The tears welled into her eyes as she 
 stowed away Grandfer's fiddle in the bottom of the 
 oak chest. She wondered when she would see it 
 again. 
 
 " I loved un," she sobbed ; " he was the friend o' 
 my 'eart an' Grandfer's too !" 
 
 > HI 
 
i 
 
 254 
 
 *POSTI>E FARM. 
 
 Presently she crept noiselessly downstairs. It was 
 still too early to meet Temple, but she feared Miss 
 Scottic might come up to find her. 
 
 She stole out softly and closed the farm gate 
 behind her noiselessly. The sheep-dog bounded to 
 her side but she motioned him back, and with droop- 
 ing tail and sad eyes he watched the girl pass out 
 of sight. 
 
 The moon was full, but being low in the sky it 
 gave comparatively little light. There was no de- 
 tail in the landscape. Only the spiked branches of 
 the firs in the little wood were silhouetted against 
 the sky : beneath them, all was impenetrable gloom. 
 
 She turneJ for one last look at the grey walls so 
 cold and implacable to the stranger's eye ; but to 
 the girl they were but the stern workaday front, 
 and deep within them the heart pulsated and 
 throbbed. An overwhelming sense of coming dis- 
 aster, a stern insistance that from this moment the 
 past must be for ever dead to her, fell upon her like 
 a suffocating pall. She threw herself on the ground 
 in a passion of tears. The little window in the 
 kitchen threw out a cheery ray of light, but not for 
 her — not for her. Something seemed to tell her 
 that light of peace and contentment would never 
 more be hers. The dark curtain of fate was being 
 slowly drawn across it. 
 
 Dashing the tears from her eyes, she sprang to 
 her feet and began to descend the hill. How often 
 as a child had she pressed the short grey grass with 
 
t was 
 Miss 
 
 gate 
 led to 
 iroop- 
 .ss out 
 
 sky it 
 no de- 
 :hes of 
 against 
 gloom, 
 vails so 
 
 but to 
 / front, 
 ed and 
 
 ng dis- 
 
 ent the 
 er like 
 
 ground 
 
 I & 
 
 in the 
 not for 
 
 tell her 
 never 
 
 IS beini^ 
 
 Irang to 
 
 often 
 
 th 
 
 w 
 
 iss wi 
 
 LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 255 
 
 dancing feet. Now her steps were heavy and her 
 heart was lead. 
 
 It was far too early to expect Temple. She sat 
 down on the bank and watched. The tide was or 
 the turn. It rushed out with a swift relentless force. 
 Scarcely conscious of thought, she remained sitting 
 and waiting. 
 
 She could tell by the glitter of the moon now 
 that the tide was almost out. Now and then a sea- 
 gull screeched. Then she began to listen atten- 
 tively, and presently she could catch the faint silver 
 dip of oars. A moment later the boat shot full into 
 the pathway of the moon. And an exaltation filled 
 her spirit. The sense that Temple was at hand, 
 and with him deliverance, stirred the pulses of 
 her being. 
 
 He sprang on to the bank just as Catherine 
 reached it. 
 
 " My darling ! " he said, holding her to his breast. 
 " ! have been tormented with doubts. I thought 
 what shall I do if she is not there?" 
 
 " I telled 'ee I'd come," she said softly. 
 
 He lifted her little box into the boat, and then 
 stood and stretched out his hand to her. 
 
 " Can y ou step from there ? " 
 
 The mjon was full on her beautiful face and 
 glittered in her eyes. She stretched out a hand to 
 him. At the same moment she stepped back with 
 a low cry. 
 
 " What is it ? " cried Temple. 
 
 li 
 
2S6 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 She stood and pointed. 
 
 "The shinin' lady!" she gasped, — "the shinin' 
 lady ! Theer's danger in the boat ! " 
 
 "You are over- wrought," he said, leaping on to 
 the bank again. " You are excited, my own ! 
 There is nothing there ! " 
 
 " Yes, yes ! " she cried ; ' can't 'ee see ? " and she 
 broke from him and went backwards a step. " Oh ! 
 when I see her beckon, I follow tho' it be blood an' 
 vire ; but when I see 'er wi' 'er 'and upraised," and 
 she raised her own, standing straight and still in the 
 moonlight as she did so, " I tell 'ee," she breathed, 
 " nor God nor Davil would bring me on ! " 
 
 
 ■ ■ 'f 
 
 Jir, 
 
 f 
 
 ! 
 
 I, 
 1 
 
 '■•\' 
 
 I' 
 
 r 
 1- 
 
 
 t 
 
 
2^7 
 
 CHAPTER LII. 
 
 
 Then Temple swore beneath his breath. His hand 
 shook as he grasped hers. 
 
 "Cathie, don't be so fooh-sh," he urged ; "there is 
 nothing there. Indeed, my dading. if there were 
 I could see it." 
 
 He began to pull her towards the boat. 
 "Tak' care, you'll drow 'er in's watter'" she 
 called. 
 
 In spite of himself he shivered. Was she really 
 crazed > ' 
 
 ''Darling," he cried, going back to her, "you once 
 said you trusted me. Trust me now-you are safe 
 —I love you— there is nothing there !" 
 
 But she shook her head, holding firmly back 
 " Dearest, for my sake, put this foolish fancy from 
 you ! Another minute and it will be too late ' See 
 the boat is half out of the water already. We 
 shall be caught on a sandbank, and all Upcott 
 will see us ! " 
 
 " All Upcott won't, for I b'ain't a-gwin." 
 
 "You can't leave me in the lurch like this!" cried 
 
258 
 
 POSTLE FARM. 
 
 I Ml 
 
 if 1.: ' 
 
 ^.'1 
 
 il 
 
 Temple. " You can't be turned by a foolish fancy. 
 Do you love me so little?" he cried, catchinfj her 
 passionately in his arms. " Cathie, we haven't tried 
 for this — it isn't our fault! It is fate that has 
 decreed it ! I swear before God no thought of any 
 thing was on my mind when I met you on the hill ; 
 it was your misery — your loneliness. Darling, I 
 love you ! I want to take care of you all my life !" 
 
 She looked in his face and tried to speak, 
 but could not. The agony of passionate love 
 and despair stamped on the face he loved swept 
 Temple off his feet like a mighty rush of water. 
 Evcrythin was forgotten in that mad moment, 
 as ho caught her to his breast. 
 
 " I don't care," he said fiercely, and speaking 
 in a quick undertone — "I don't care. Nothing 
 matters but you and love. Let everything else 
 go. What is anything to me ? Love such as 
 ours is God-given. Everything must give way 
 before it. Catherine — my own — my love — come!" 
 
 She was beginning to tremble. The old land- 
 marks were being washed away. It seemed as 
 if their love filled all the earth and sanctified 
 every action. In moments of strong passion 
 reason becomes obliterated. Nothing remains to 
 guide us but the wild effort tn recall what once, 
 in our calmer moments, reason taught us was the 
 right course of action. Failing that, we are lost. 
 
 Cathie paused, and in that pause all heaven 
 bent to help her. 
 
 
LINE UPON LINK, I'RKuKrX UI'dN PRECEPT. 259 
 
 She struggled back from him. 
 
 ••I can't!" she gasped. "Don't ask it of me-~ 
 for love o' me, don't ! " 
 
 " Is that your answer? " His tone frii^htencd her. 
 
 " It be, it be ! " she said, with tearless sob.s. 
 
 "Your nature is incapable of love," he cried 
 fiercely. "I always felt you were somehow out- 
 side of me, and that I could never master you ; 
 and this is the up.shot of it" 
 
 He flung her from him. 
 
 "I would to God I had never met you!" he 
 said, with an intensity of bitternes.s. " It was an 
 evil day for me when I climbed the hill to teach 
 you how to be a scholar — a damnable day when 
 I gave my heart into your keeping. You were a 
 witch from the first, and the country-people knew 
 it. You dragged out my heart in spite of myself, 
 and now when I wait for yours in exchange you 
 tempt me to the last pitch of endurance and then 
 fling me from you. It was a cursed day when 
 I met you — a cursed day w^icn your lips first 
 touched mine. You have me in your power. 
 Were heaven open to me without you I would 
 not enter, and into the very nethermost hell 
 would I go for one hour of you, body and soul." 
 
 He spoke with an intensity of intoxicated pas- 
 sion. Her frustration of his plans had maddened 
 him. He was in a mood so desperate that life 
 held nothing for him at the moment but his own 
 ungratified passion. 
 
2fyO 
 
 'POSTI-K FARM. 
 
 She threw her tender arms about him. 
 
 " I love 'ee," she sobbed ; " but, O God in 
 heaven, you ask too much ! " 
 
 " What are your kisses to me ? " he said. 
 "Empty promises that have no meaniiifr." 
 
 He hurled her from him, and she fell : on the 
 still air a cry of agony echoed faintly through 
 the hills. 
 
 Temple shoved the boat off unheeding, and at 
 the same instant a strong voice called — 
 
 " Is any one hurt ? Answer ! " 
 
 But the wild splash of oars, as Temple in fury 
 rowed himself from the spot that had tortured 
 him, was the only answer. 
 
 A dark figure passed close to Catherine, but 
 the bush against which she had fallen hid her 
 from his sight. He groped once within a foot 
 of her, and then, coming back, his fingers actually 
 played upon her loosened hair and took it for 
 the seaweed and the grass. 
 
 M)l 
 
26 1 
 
 CHAPTER LIII. 
 
 "Well, I wish Cathie would come," said Madge, 
 "or you would come to bed, Cocksey. I don't 
 mind which; but I do wish" — with a very big 
 yawn — "one or the other would happen. There 
 she is!" as the sheep-dog's bark sounded loudly 
 through the yard. 
 
 " Shep wouldn't bark at her," said Miss Scottie. 
 " My dear, this is a very lonely farm for two 
 female'-. Somehow Cathie was so muscular and 
 ia.l a ]' 'wer with her, I never felt nervous when 
 ,;he w«? here." 
 
 A ij a's voice bade the dog lie down. 
 
 "iViy!" said Madge, "ain't this romantic?" 
 
 The next moment a knock at the door echoed 
 along the oak beams of the kitchen where the 
 two were sitting. 
 
 " I'll open the door," said Madge. 
 
 " No ; I'll open it," said Cocksey, pushing her 
 back. 
 
 "Well, let's both open it." 
 
 So they went together. 
 
2C2 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 
 {I 
 
 
 !! I 
 
 
 " Anybody there ? " called Cocksey's liijrh treble. 
 
 " Robert ! " came the answer in a deep bass. 
 
 At which both the women screamed and flung 
 open wide the door. 
 
 A tall man stood outside, and Madge dragged 
 him in, and there was much excitement ; while 
 the sheep-dog sniffed suspiciously at the stranger's 
 heels. 
 
 "Why ever didn't you let us know.?" cried 
 Madge at last. '* Our Abigail's gone off in a 
 huff, and we neither of us can cook chops — only 
 potatoes." 
 
 Robert said he didn't mind that in the least. 
 He had come to ruralise with his sister for the 
 space of three months, and was quite prepared 
 to take rural luck. 
 
 " When you wrote from 'Postle Farm it was too 
 much for me. This is the old place I sketched 
 in for a background to my Academy picture last 
 > car." 
 
 " Good gracious ! " cried Madge, " and Cathie 
 was the girl ! I always said I had seen her some- 
 where. How awfully odd!" 
 
 'Can you put me up for three months.?" 
 
 " My dear, for our sakes stay till the remaindei 
 of the lease. We're rather nervous here." 
 
 " No occasion for that. I don't suppose you 
 brought the family plate?" 
 
 Scottic shook her h'iad. " I don't know who 
 would clean it," she said in her matter-of-fact way. 
 
V 
 
 ICl 
 
 LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 263 
 
 "Wc didn't mind when Cathie was here," said 
 Madge. 
 
 "Who's Cathie?" 
 
 "Oh! just a girl who cooked for us." 
 
 "My dear, now do, pray, excuse me," said 
 Cockscy, " but that's just what she wasn't." 
 
 "Well, I mean she was supposed to," corrected 
 Madge. 
 
 "She's a wonderful girl," cried Cocksey. "She 
 does so love to learn, and she's so beautiful and 
 so " 
 
 Madge put her hand before Cocksey's mouth. 
 
 "I'm sick of Cathie. I'm angry with her. 
 Which of us two is going to peel the potatoes ? " 
 
 " I, of course, my dear," said Cocksey, bustling oft". 
 "Oh, dear!" she said, rustling back presently; "I 
 do wish that dear child was back." 
 
 "What dear child?" asked Robert. 
 
 "Cathie." 
 
 "Your Abigail?" 
 
 "Your model." 
 
 "My model! Where did she go?" 
 
 "No one knows." 
 
 " Have you no idea ? " 
 
 " None," said Madge. " She went oft" in a regu- 
 lar tantrum." 
 
 Then Robert remembered the cry by the river. 
 "She wouldn't try to drown herself, I suppose?" 
 Miss Scottie screamed, and put her hands to 
 her ears. 
 
264 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 m 
 
 m. 
 
 w 4 •% 
 
 '(.-fi 
 
 " Oh, no ; she's all right," said Madge ; and 
 they sat down comfortably to supper. 
 
 When they were all ready for bed Montague 
 said — 
 
 " Shan't I go and call or look or do something 
 to find this Abigail?" 
 
 Miss Scottie shook her head. " We must leave the 
 door on the latch, and a light in the window." 
 
 " She is a curious, uncanny kind of a creature," 
 said Madge. 
 
 So they all went to bed. 
 
 And with the dawn the tide came creeping up. 
 Nearer and nearer it flowed, higher and higher. 
 It reached the spot where Temple had moored his 
 boat, and it washed out the marks of his passionate 
 footsteps. Then it surged higher and touched the 
 foot of the girl still lying under the thorn tree. 
 
 Montague tossed on his bed and could not sleep. 
 He dropped into a doze at last, but woke at the 
 sound of a woman's cry. He started up in bed and 
 knew he had been dreaming. But sleep was ovsr 
 for him. Through the square window-pane the 
 dawn was faintly glimmering, like a mountain tarn 
 silvered with a white reflection. He threw on his 
 clothes and w:;nt out and groped his way down- 
 stairs. His Jister's cats ran mewing to him under 
 the impression it was now breakfast-time. The dead 
 ashes were in the cold grate ; outside a cock crowed 
 drowsily. He opened the kitchen door and looked 
 out on the grey yard. A. calf blaired, and the ever- 
 
 
LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 265 
 
 and 
 ague 
 thing 
 /e the 
 Lture" 
 
 \g up. 
 ligher. 
 ed his 
 sionate 
 led the 
 tree, 
 sleep, 
 at the 
 ed and 
 Ls over 
 Ine the 
 |in tarn 
 on his 
 down- 
 under 
 le dead 
 Icrowed 
 looked 
 [e ever- 
 
 hungry pig grunted. The rooks were not moving 
 yet in the budding branches of the elms. The sheep- 
 dog, having accepted Montague into the bosom of 
 the family, ran up to him, lazily stretching and 
 yawning, and licked his hand. As Montague passed 
 under the elm-trees, along the beaten, knott<^d path- 
 way, an old rook stirred drowsily and called sleepily 
 " Caw ! " and from the neighbouring branches came 
 the answers, " Caw ! caw ! caw ! " till the air was 
 clamorous with their calling and the beating of their 
 dusky wings. 
 
 Montague strode down to the river. Over the hill 
 the mist hung, wreathing into shapes and forms 
 quaint and fantastic. But he did not pause just 
 then to observe the effects of nature. He hurried 
 down the hill, till he reached, as far as he could 
 judge, somewhere about the place from whence he 
 had heard the woman cry. 
 
 There was a thorn-bush a little way ahead of him. 
 He could see something white lying out on a tuft of 
 grass. Then he reached it at a stride. It was a 
 woman's hand, and already the tide was surging over 
 her lower limbs. He lifted her quickly into a place 
 of safety, and, as he bent his face close to hers in the 
 half light, he recognised the features he had painted 
 in the autumn of the year before — the girl whose 
 personality he had obstinately refused to allow. He 
 had looked upon her as he might have a beautiful 
 pieca of sculpturing. She was no woman to him ; 
 and though the imprisoned soul had sometimes 
 
266 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 i !' 
 
 it 
 
 I, 
 
 I. ! 
 
 ['IP 
 
 ft <'l 
 
 i 
 
 gazed at him with a passion of intensity for one brief 
 heart-beat, he would have none of it. She was his 
 model, but he respected her. 
 
 He was a strong, muscular man, but he looked 
 with some misgiving at the hill before him. Cath- 
 erine was no sylph; she was a full-grown, fully 
 developed woman, and he doubted if he could mount 
 the hill with her in his arms. 
 
 By a lucky chance his brandy flask was in his 
 pocket, put there in case he should lose his way on 
 a rather longer stage than even a strong bicyclist 
 usually faces. He tried to force a little between her 
 closed teeth. He was thankful to find her body dry, 
 save for the dew. At any rate, she was not drowned. 
 
 The beautiful, luminous eyes opened wearily, and 
 stared up at him in indifferent curiosity. 
 
 " Do you think, with my help, you could walk ? " 
 said Montague. 
 
 Her eyes closed heavily. 
 
 So he took off his coat and bent over her. 
 
 " If you could manage to clasp your hands round 
 my neck — do you think you could ? — I could get 
 you home. You will be ill if you stay here longer." 
 
 He got her into his arms, and himself upon his 
 feet, somehow, and began to breast the bill. All the 
 time his teeth were tightly clenched. He loathed 
 himself because, in spite of himself, the sense of her 
 nearness was dear to him. His heart, during the 
 weeks he had painted her, liad been like a slumbering 
 volcano. Without waniitjg k had burst into a tur- 
 
LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 267 
 
 brief 
 IS his 
 
 )okeQ 
 Cath- 
 fuUy 
 mount 
 
 in his 
 vay on 
 icyclist 
 ten her 
 dy dry, 
 rowned. 
 ily, and 
 
 walk ? " 
 
 round 
 )uld get 
 onger." 
 pon his 
 All the 
 loathed 
 e of her 
 ring the 
 mbering 
 o a tur- 
 
 moil. He despised himself because he was attracted 
 by a beautiful body, and asked no questions of the 
 slumbering soul within. It was only what thousands 
 of his fellow-creatures did, but from himself he felt 
 he had expected something different. 
 
 When at length he reached the farm he carried 
 her upstairs and laid her on his own bed, because it 
 was the handiest thing to do. 
 
 Then he woke Miss Scottie and rode away for the 
 doctor. 
 
 Cathie was desperately ill. For weeks she lay on 
 the borderland. Only her wonderful constitution 
 pulled her through. 
 
 ** A severe shock to the nervous system," was the 
 cause, the doctor said ; and this had been followed 
 by rheumatic fever. But what caused the nervous 
 shock no one knew — whether she had tried to drown 
 herself and failed ; whether she had merely fainted 
 underneath the spreading thorn and been mercifully 
 rescued from drowning by Montague, nobody knew. 
 Nobody could guess at all, excepting one man, and 
 he guessed. He knew. 
 
 Details, of course, he did not know ; but as the 
 girl grew stronger, and was able to lie on the sofa 
 downstairs, and tlien to creep into the yard for the 
 warm spring sunshine, he watched her furtively. At 
 first he had intended leaving the farm next day ; but 
 he told himself he would not be a coward — he would 
 live the thing down. If it was a thing to be 
 strangled, he would strangle it ; if it was a thing to 
 
268 
 
 pnsri.K FAKM. 
 
 1 , 
 
 foster, — but t]ioii<.>Iit took liini no further — beyond 
 was delirium. 
 
 So he stayed and he watched Cathie furtively — 
 so furtively that no one suspected it. And he found 
 out — by instinct, perhaps, for he very rarely saw her 
 close ; but at any rate he became posses.sed of 
 Cathie's secret — in part. She loved. Beyond that 
 a nic^htmare of doubt tormented him. 
 
 en 
 
 One day he saw her from the window of the 
 room he called his studio pass through the farm- 
 gate and under the elms. Here she strolled for a 
 while with head bent and downcast eyes — a poem. 
 After a while she sat down on the twisted root 
 of the farthest elm, and leant her chin upon her 
 hand and sighed. He knew she sighed ; he could 
 fancy that he saw her bosom heave, though in- 
 deed, good as his sight was, he could not have. 
 Anyway he saw her sigh in fancy, and it is a 
 fact that she sighed in reality. 
 
 And so he saw her many days. Always she 
 passed the same way, and sat and sighed. And 
 always her eyes were in the one direction, and 
 that direction was Upcott Hall. And he began 
 to build up his own story, bit by bit, and piece 
 by piece. And no one suspected that he was 
 doing anything but painting. 
 
 The farm, indeed, was a charming residence now. 
 It was crammed with old oak ; its draughty doors 
 were sheltered with heavy curtains ; its old kitchen 
 was converted into the most delightful of morning 
 
beyond 
 
 :ively — 
 e found 
 saw her 
 ssscd c)f 
 nd that 
 
 of the 
 ic farm- 
 ed for a 
 a poem. 
 :ed root 
 pon her 
 ic could 
 )UG:h in- 
 3t have. 
 
 it is a 
 
 ays she 
 1 And 
 ion, and 
 iC began 
 nd piece 
 he was 
 
 nee now. 
 
 ity doors 
 
 d kitchen 
 
 morning 
 
 LINE UPON LINE, PkECEI'T UPON PRECEPT. -69 
 
 rooms; it was absolutely charming, — every one 
 said so; and the country waived Mad<,^e's peculiari- 
 ties once more, and called. Montague's man-ser- 
 vant presided with dignity in the back regions, 
 and his wife served dinner with a French effect, 
 in spite of the lack of appliances. 
 
 Madge grumbled it was not a bit like she meant 
 it to be, but in her heart of hearts she was very 
 glad. A month of farm life had been ample. It 
 was now more than a year since her brother had 
 thrown in his menage with hers, and she welcomed 
 him back warmly, and was thankful to escape so 
 easily out of her last craze, and that, too, without 
 giving herself away. 
 
 "Do you know what that stupid Cathie wants 
 to do.?" said Madge one afternoon. 
 
 To tell the honest truth, Madge was not very 
 fond of Cathie, but during her illness she had felt 
 sorry for her. Their natures, however, were too 
 widely different ever to admit of any real warmth 
 of feeling between them mi their present difference 
 of station. Madge hated sick-rooms, but she had 
 conquered her aversion, and had spent many 
 hours reading aloud to Cathie. Tears of wounded 
 pride had welled over Cathie's eyes when she 
 first listened to Madge. For the reading aloud 
 brought back to her these happier hours, xv^ien she 
 and Temple had sat on the grassy hillside, starred 
 with daisies, and she had felt her power over him 
 grow with the lengthening hours. But he had 
 
! I 
 
 Id ) 
 
 70 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 '1 
 
 V, 
 
 
 not loved her sufficiently to make the one little 
 sacrifice necessary — to face the world with her. 
 
 " What ? " asked Montague, but without taking 
 his eyes from his canvas. 
 
 " I don't suppose you're sufficiently interested in 
 her to care to hear. I'm sure I'm not. She really 
 annoys me. One would think she was a princess 
 in disguise — or a genius." 
 
 Montague said nothing except — 
 
 " How do you like that ? Rather charming, isn't 
 it, with that quaint piece of cob-wall, and the row 
 of beehives — then the arch beyond, and the pump. 
 I never felt so grateful to you for anything in my 
 life, Madge, as for settling here." 
 
 " Really .-* Well, I am glad. Yes ; it's a lovely 
 bit — but you want a figure." 
 
 "Hm— I was afraid I did." 
 
 "Why not use Cathie?" 
 
 " No ; I don't want her." 
 
 " How queer ! Now 1 should have thought you 
 would have been taking her in every possible 
 position. However, if she's going away, of course 
 you can't." 
 
 "Is she going away? I'm not sure I've got 
 that perspective right. It's awkward, though it 
 doesn't look so." 
 
 There was several minutes' silence while Mon- 
 tague measured the different points of his canvas. 
 
 Madge dawdled back to the house, but Mon- 
 tague painted till sunset 
 
 
LINE UPON LINE, rRKCEPT Ul'ON PRECEI'T. 27 1 
 
 got 
 h it 
 
 Mon- 
 
 anvas. 
 
 Mon- 
 
 ' Madge has told you, I suppose?" said Miss 
 Scottie, when he came into the house. 
 
 "Told me what?" 
 
 "About Cathie." 
 
 •* What ; going, you mean ? Well, she's no good 
 here, is she ? I notice she always appears to have 
 done that which she ought not, and to have left 
 undone that which she, &c., &c." 
 
 " She wants to go to a boarding-school." 
 
 "A what?" 
 
 "A boarding-school." 
 
 " H'm — to be an educated miss, I suppose ? " 
 
 " No ; to be an educated lady." 
 
 " Is that what she says ? " 
 
 "Yes, that's her idea. What shall I do?" 
 
 "What can you do? You're not her guardian. 
 Besides, why shouldn't she go?" 
 
 But when Montague got upstairs he paced his 
 narrow apartment with uneasy strides. She was 
 going away? Why was she going? She was going 
 to be educated. Why ? They would lose sight of 
 her. What would her end be? 
 
 He shuddered. 
 
 "When is Cathie going?" he asked at dinner. 
 
 " She says she doesn't quite know — she can't 
 make up her mind exactly." 
 
 And Montague said to himself, " She cannot 
 go till she has seen some one." And he watched 
 her. 
 
 Then she suddenly announced — 
 
 1 1 
 
 1 1 
 
"TT 
 
 272 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 " I'm a-gwin in to Upcott for lam o' the school- 
 missus ! " 
 
 This news was in due time passed on to Montague. 
 
 "She had better live out here with us," he said, 
 "and walk in every day. I don't like the idea of 
 her going out friendless into the world." 
 
 " Even Robert spoils her," thought Madge. 
 
 Aloud she said — 
 
 " There is no school there for her except the 
 Church school, and Mrs Eliot refused her long ago 
 — that's why we had to take compassion on her." 
 
 " Why did Mrs Eliot refuse her ? " 
 
 " She wasn't quite so idiotically quixotic as Cock- 
 sey — I suppose that's why." 
 
 " Well, if she pays for her schooling I see nothing 
 quixotic in teaching her." 
 
 " No ; well, she'd have to live with Mrs Eliot. I 
 can speak from experience, there's enough quixot- 
 ism in a week of that to last a lifetime. She was 
 no use in the house at all — besides being a most 
 awful bore. She used to come into our sitting- 
 room and sit down with the greatest composure — 
 she did really — and pick out tunes on my piano. 
 Oh ! it was unbearable. I hated it I don't believe 
 in being quixotic — I shall never be it again." 
 
 When an opportunity came Montague addressed 
 Miss Scottie on the subject. 
 
 " She could learn plenty at the Church school if 
 she wants to," said he. " And yoa say she means 
 
 in 
 
w 
 
 LINE uroN LINE, rKEChrr uroN pRECKri. 273 
 
 to spend what money she has on education, so rcall\' 
 I don't sec that Mrs Eliot need object. You might 
 call and see her about it." 
 
 " Oh, my dear, anything to please you and dear 
 Madge, but not i/uit/ I called once before, and 1 
 felt I made a great mistake. Now, i{ j^ou were to 
 call." 
 
 Montague moved uneasily. 
 
 " I couldn't very well ; you know what people are. 
 It would get about at once that I was educating the 
 girl for myself." 
 
 "But what use would she be to you?" cried Miss 
 Scottie. 
 
 " They would say, perhaps, I was educating her 
 to be my wife." 
 
 Miss Scottie covered her face with her hands. 
 
 " Oh, what a wicked, wicked world ! " she groaned. 
 
 " It would never do for me to take the least ap- 
 parent interest in her. We've been too quixotic 
 already. Now she could attend the Church school 
 surely without exciting the least remark." 
 
 Miss Scottie fingered her fancy work uneasily. 
 Then a bright thought struck her. 
 
 " Send her away from here to a boarding-school 
 for trades-people!" she cried. "We could easily 
 find such an one." 
 
 " She won't go away," said Montague. 
 
 " Have you asked her, my dear ? " 
 
 " No ; but I know she wouldn't ; at least " — check- 
 ing himself — " you had better ask her." 
 
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274 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 I'tl 
 
 i; :\ 
 
 Miss Scottic did ask her. Cathie firmly refused. 
 She came back and told Montague. 
 
 "You ask her too," she said. " Perhaps she would 
 if you asked her." 
 
 " She would not do it for me more than for any 
 one else," said Montague. " Did she give any reason 
 for not going away ? " he asked suddenly. 
 
 " No — none." 
 
 " You might call in and see the rector of Upcott ; 
 he might arrange something," suggested Montague. 
 
 " I might," said Miss Scottie, doubtfully ; and this 
 she finally ended by doing. 
 
 The rector undertook to ask Mrs Eliot if she 
 would be so good and kind as to let Cathie learn 
 with the children. 
 
 " I've brought her here for you to see," he finished. 
 " She's just outside." 
 
 And that altered the complexion of things. The 
 brilliant intelligent eyes hunting for knowledge, 
 went straight to Mrs Eliot's heart. And she under- 
 took the task. 
 
 "You'll have to house her here a bit longer, 
 Madge," said Montague. " We could not very well 
 shove her off. You began to be quixotic, and now 
 you'll have to go on with it." 
 
 "As long as she don't join our tea-parties," said 
 Madge. 
 
 " I confess 1 see nothing forward in her," said 
 Montague. 
 
 " No, she's afraid of you, I suppose ; but before 
 
efuscd. 
 
 ; would 
 
 "or any 
 reason 
 
 jpcott ; 
 itague. 
 ind this 
 
 ; if she 
 ie learn 
 
 inished. 
 
 s. The 
 ivledge, 
 under- 
 longer, 
 ery well 
 ind now 
 
 :s," said 
 ir," said 
 t before 
 
 LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 2/5 
 
 you came she led me and Cocksey a dance, I can 
 tell you ! " 
 
 So Cathie walked in to Upcott school every day. 
 And very soon Mrs Eliot began to take a deep 
 pleasure in her keen desire for knowledge, her sim- 
 plicity, her delicate ways, her gentle feelings— for 
 all these were Cathie's when she reached an atmo- 
 sphere where she was understood. 
 
 And Mrs Eliot understood her. She was a woman 
 of ready sympathy, and she did her utmost to push 
 her eager scholar forward. 
 
 For Cathie was still eager. Many waters cannot 
 quench love. In the dim future, if she could fit her- 
 self for the post, Temple would come back to her, 
 she told herself. She did not blame him, except for 
 not believing sufficiently in her cleverness to feel 
 that in time she could fit herself for the position 
 which he occupied. Well ! she would prove to him 
 she could. 
 
 Meanwhile no boat rowed across the changing 
 river. 
 
 Temple had gone for a trip round the world. 
 And after a while Cathie stayed altogether with 
 Mrs Eliot, and Tostle Farm knew her no more. 
 
27'5 
 
 CHAPTER LIV. 
 
 M)^ 
 
 Cathie rapidly passed the Standards. Learning 
 was no trouble to her. 
 
 Her magnificent physique enabled her to study 
 for long hours without fatigue, and her quick brain 
 grasped subjects at a glance, which the less intelli- 
 gent have often to struggle over for an indefinite 
 period. 
 
 She paid Mrs Eliot regularly the sum they had 
 agreed upon — for Cathie had insisted her education 
 should not be free, — she felt no anxiety about money. 
 Lord Frobisher had told her to come for more 
 when that was gone : besides, there were Grandfer's 
 savings. 
 
 Mrs Eliot soon found her exceedingly useful. 
 She helped her in the school, taking the younger 
 classes at first, then gradually working her way up 
 to the higher standards. Nothing escaped her, noth- 
 ing was hard to her ; nothing, except — her Devon- 
 shire ! How it clung to her ! How it seemed part 
 and parcel of her tongue ! The moment she was 
 interested or startled the old words slipped out. It 
 

 LINE UPON LINK, PRECErT UPON PRECEPT. 277 
 
 seemed as if her tongue could never shape itself to 
 any other language. Yet she attacked it with in- 
 domitable pluck. She was never disheartened. 
 
 And the town began to talk about her, and the 
 county grew interested. But Cathie worked on 
 quietly at her books, and heeded them not. 
 
 And something new came into the girl's beautiful 
 face, just as sunlight streams into a room— only the 
 sunlight leaves it when the daylight fades ; but that 
 which came into Cathie's face came to stay. 
 
 Every day she climbed the ridge behind 'Postlc 
 Farm, and looked down on the twelve stately elms, 
 standing straight and true, like heroes in the battle ;' 
 but no pendant flew to beckon her in the breeze.' 
 Yet she never went home dissatisfied,— the buoyancy 
 that had forsaken her for a while had returned to 
 her. 
 
 To Mrs Eliot she grew very dear— she had under- 
 stood her from the first : why should not the girl 
 choose her own station in life? So the months 
 glided by. 
 
 One day Mrs Eliot and Cathie received an invita- 
 tion to take tea at Tostle Farm. Cathie did not 
 wish to go: she shrank from the painful memories 
 the old p^'ace would awaken. But Mrs Eliot per- 
 suaded her, and they went. 
 
 The invitation was entirely due to Lady Gamble, 
 who was anxious to see the farm girl her niece was 
 taking such an interest in. Not for the world would 
 she have called at Mrs Eliot's for this purpose. She 
 
2/8 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 1!^ ii' 
 ' ? , ■■ ■ 
 
 ll. 
 
 was very much annoyed at the whole proccecHnfj, 
 but her curiosity led her to investigate the matter — 
 only her niece was not to know the meeting was 
 prearranged. 
 
 There was really nothing Lady Gamble so 
 thoroughly enjoyed as bringing out a good-looking 
 or a clever girl. To discover beauty and genius, 
 irrespective of birth, and thrust her discovery into 
 the gaping mouths of the county, was a situation 
 she revelled in. But Cathie's birth was a little too 
 exceptional even for Lady Gamble. 
 
 It was a beautiful afternoon when Lady Gamble's 
 carriage rolled into the old farm -yard. The cows 
 lowed at her over the stone wall, for it was near 
 their milking - time, and the footman descended 
 and rapped with his knuckles on the door, and 
 the immaculate man-servant, imported by Mon- 
 tague, bowed her ladyship ceremoniously into the 
 kitchen. 
 
 "Well, I'm blowed, if ever!" said the coachman, 
 as he turned the carriage round to find standing- 
 room m the barn. "These 'ere bloomin' gentry 
 choose odd kind o' games." 
 
 "You, Lady Gamble!" cried Madge, who had 
 been coached. "Mrs Eliot is here too." 
 
 "Why ever don't you have the hedges cut, my 
 dear .? " cried Lady Gamble. " Gregory says they 
 scratch the carriage to pieces. I know they nearly 
 tore my bonnet off my head ! You must hav:, them 
 cut." 
 
LINE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PRECEPT. 279 
 
 "We can't," said Madge. "It's called Scratch 
 Face Lane." 
 
 " My dear Margaret," said Lady Gamble, as soon 
 as tea was over and Miss Scottie and Madge had 
 taken Cathie to see the stock, "you often told me 
 about her— and I wouldn't believe half you said ! 
 But listen to me, you may swear black's white, but 
 that girl's got good blood in her veins ! She never 
 got that carriage, that manner, from a farm ! Beauty 
 of a certain type one sees in that class repeatedly. 
 Heaven forbid I should disparage it-it would never 
 do in these Communist days— but without intending 
 any disrespect to that class at all, that girl's type of 
 beauty is ?iever found save, and save only, where the 
 blood has been crossed with the aristocracy of the 
 land ! Do you not agree with me, Mr Montague?" 
 " Well, I confess I have had some suspicion of the 
 sort in her case ! " 
 
 "You have? Of course you have! You're a 
 sensible man. You know we don't gather grapes 
 of thorns nor figs of thistles I " 
 
 "Oh, you are quite wrong!" cried Mrs Eliot. 
 " Of course since I took up this work of village 
 teaching I have been thrown so much with her class, 
 and I assure you I have over and over again met 
 with a delicacy of feeling, an intuitive knowled-e, 
 that you often do not find equalled and rarely J'x- 
 celled in the class that is foolishly termed, above 
 them ! " 
 
? ;•,, 
 
 
 280 
 
 'POSTLK FARM. 
 
 ¥^ 
 
 " Of course you do ! " said Lady Gamble. " There 
 is plenty of cr.)ss-ljlood in most villages!" 
 
 " Ah, but there the parents are, simple honest 
 people ! " 
 
 " Yes, yes, that is all very well," said Lady Gam- 
 ble ; "but have you, in one of these intuitive cases 
 you speak of — have you traced the descent back for 
 generations through plebeian blood ? There you are, 
 you see ! Allow me to state that good blood, and 
 good blood only — I don't care if it's half a hundred 
 generations back — but it's the best blood only that 
 turns out a girl like — who is it ? What's her name ? 
 Cathie — Cathie Vithycott — Pugsley — pshaw! Cathie 
 Fiddlesticks ; she's no more a Tythycott proper 
 than I am ! " 
 
 Lady Gamble lay back in her chair and tossed 
 her head, first at one listener, then at the other. 
 
 "Certainly," said Mrs Eliot, "Cathie is simply a 
 world of surprises. She learns so fast, she almost 
 frightens me, and she seems to have been born 
 with an absolute knowledge of the correct thing 
 to do." 
 
 " Of course she was," said Lady Gamble. " Now, 
 my dear Margaret, do for goodness sake make her 
 drop that Devonshire. It's awful, isn't it ? " appeal- 
 ing to Montague. 
 
 " Yes, she might pass foi any one till she opens 
 her mouth ! " said he, laughing. 
 
 Mrs Eliot laughed too. 
 " Poor, dear girl, she does try so hard ! " she said. 
 
" There 
 
 : honest 
 
 \y Gam- 
 ve cases 
 back for 
 you arc, 
 ood, and 
 hundred 
 m\y that 
 jr name? 
 ! Cathie 
 t proper 
 
 d tossed 
 other, 
 simply a 
 e almost 
 ;en born 
 ict thing 
 
 " Now, 
 nake her 
 ' appeal- 
 he opens 
 
 she said. 
 
 UNE UPON LINE, PRECEPT UPON PKHCEPT. 281 
 
 "What ever made her take this education freak 
 into her head?" 
 
 " Ah ! that I don't know," said Mrs Eliot " When 
 she begins, in that charming open way of hers, to 
 talk, you think she is going to tell you everything 
 but when it's over you find she really has told you 
 very little." ^ 
 
 " Does she ever hint any mystery about her birth ? " 
 " Oh, no," said Mrs Eliot ; " there is none " 
 "Well, if you can make her talk plain English. 
 
 you 11 do more than I ever expect to see. You're a 
 
 goose to undertake it." 
 
 As Mrs Eliot and Cathie walked home together 
 Cathie said— 
 
 " I like mixing with real gentry folk." 
 
 "We don't say gentry folk," said Mrs Eliot who 
 
 had strict orders from Cathie to correct her in 
 
 every particular. " We say. well-bred people." 
 Dear heart ! and it really matters ? Well, it is 
 
 mteresting— and. yes. absurd ! " 
 These little difierences of expression between the 
 
 classes amused her immensely. 
 
 Next day Lady Gamble called on her niece. 
 "Now what are you going to do about the m,-l?" 
 she asked. ** 
 
 "Let her stay with me, just as long as she is 
 inclined to." 
 
 "You can't possibly. The girl would be in a 
 false position." 
 
282 
 
 'rOSTLE FARM. 
 
 " I don't see that ! " 
 
 " You never sec anything that's plain and practical, 
 that's one thing! Things that everbody else sees, 
 you can't. The girl ought to go away somewhere 
 and be properly educated, and then married to one 
 of the more respectable artisan class — or a clerk." 
 
 Her niece smiled at her. 
 
 "You know you don't think that, aunt!" she 
 said. 
 
 " Well, I think she should be educated away from 
 here, any way — and then some one who is an autho- 
 rity in these matters " 
 
 •' Yourself, for instance ! " interrupted Mrs Eliot. 
 
 "Should run down," continued Lady Gamble, 
 i<^noring her, "and see how she's shaping, and 
 order her course accordingly." 
 
 Mrs Eliot sighed. 
 
 " I've no doubt you're right," she said ; " but I've 
 grown fo d of her. I don't like the idea of losing 
 her. There is no hurry for the present, any way. 
 I'll educate her till she knows all I know — that's 
 economical, and at the same time pleasant for me." 
 
 " I thought you said she paid you ? " 
 
 " So she does, but I leave you to imagine whether 
 it's a large sum." 
 
 " Well, it's economical ; but still she oughtn't to 
 stay with you. I don't believe at all in thrustincj 
 people out of the class to which they belong. Her 
 head will be turned." 
 
 " No one's head is turned when they come into 
 
m 
 ifi 
 
 actical, 
 ;e sees, 
 ewhcrc 
 to one 
 erk." 
 
 :1" she 
 
 ay from 
 1 autho- 
 
 Eliot. 
 Gamble, 
 ng, and 
 
 r but I've 
 
 lof losing 
 
 ny way. 
 
 —that's 
 
 or me." 
 
 whether 
 
 Ightn't to 
 Ithrustinc^ 
 ig. Her 
 
 lome into 
 
 LINE UPON LINK, I'KH LPT UPON PRKCEPT. 283 
 
 the sphere they were created for! It's only when 
 they are forced into a position by a misguided leader 
 of society." 
 
 " That's why I want her to go away. Whether 
 her head's turned or not tlien won't matter to us," 
 said Lady Gamble. " We can stop short before 
 the mischief's done, but if you keep her here, and 
 get that absurd heart of yours entangled — well, 
 there'll be tremble all round, that'll be the end 
 of it." 
 
 "If she stays with mc, I can watch her every day, 
 and if I see her getting beyond herself, remove 
 my sympathy and help — and recommend her going 
 into domestic service." She burst out laughing. 
 " You know, aunt," she finished, " it's ridiculous — 
 you'll never tie her down to the common-place. 
 She's bound to make a leader of something. Look 
 at her violin-playing alone ! No, no, she has a future, 
 and I'm not going to lose my hold of her 1" 
 
 " Violin's good, is it?" 
 
 "Well, / think it beautiful— but then I'm no 
 judge." 
 
 " Then I'm no nearer the truth than I was." 
 
 "Well, you can take my opinion for what it's 
 worth." 
 
 "On your own estimate? that's worth nothing, 
 you say; and, candidly, Marg.uet, I don't know 
 whether you're an authority on music or not — I 
 only remember the Colonel wasn't. The fact is, 
 you're an unsatisfactory person to have the manage- 
 
284 
 
 'rOSTT-E FAKNf. 
 
 it 
 
 . 
 
 
 i %' 
 
 1 :; 
 
 r- : 
 
 Ir, ^ 
 
 }il 
 
 incnt of this girl, and I wish with all my heart you'd 
 hand her over to one of her own class !" 
 
 " My dear aunt, they wouldn't understand her a 
 bit ! She's very queer sometimes. She's painfully 
 imaginative. I'm always in terror she'll influence 
 Laury ! " 
 
 " Influence him? How!" 
 
 " Why, make him tell fibs." 
 
 " Does she tell fibs ? " 
 
 " Not consciously ; but she imagines things, you 
 know — and children pick things up so easily." 
 
 " I always supposed imagination a natural gift — 
 bestowed by the good fairies at o^e's birth. I 
 didn't know it could be picked up like a germ. I 
 think I shall try and pick it up." 
 
 " Well, I mean, it's imagination in Cathie ; but 
 in Laury it would be fibs, because he wouldn't 
 see the things really, — he'd only say he did be- 
 cause Cathie did ! " 
 
 " Let me see : imagination in Cathie — fibs in 
 Laury — and, if I caught it, a still further deteriora- 
 tion, I suppose ! Dear me I It's like influenza 
 in the head of the house, and head colds in the 
 women, and nothing more than ill-temper in the 
 domestics. You really are ridiculous, Margaret. 
 You've begun already to hedge that girl in with 
 a kind of divinity, to the exclusion even of your 
 own ofispring. I see you'll make a failure of the 
 whole thing!" 
 
 Mrs Eliot smiled quietly. 
 
•t you'd 
 
 i her a 
 ainfuUy 
 ifluencc 
 
 If 
 
 gs, you 
 ly." 
 
 I gift- 
 rth. I 
 erm. I 
 
 lie ; but 
 muldn't 
 did be- 
 
 BOOK IV. 
 
 THE AWAKENING 
 
 r » 
 
 -fibs in 
 
 iteriora- 
 
 ifluenza 
 
 in the 
 
 in the 
 
 argaret. 
 
 in with 
 
 of your 
 
 of the 
 
iff..!' 
 
 i 
 
 fevJ 
 
 ■H '1 
 
 ' • 
 
 In 1 
 
 
 ir 
 
 : ( 
 
 m: 
 
 
CHAPTER LV. 
 
 When Temple left Cathie and rowed himself back, 
 the fierce passion burnt itself out slowly, and in 
 the sober morning light he found his self-respect 
 was gone. 
 
 He was very wretched. To lose satisfaction in 
 one's self is a very unpleasant thing. 
 
 One has to live with one's self, and to live 
 with any one who h^^s thoroughly displeased 
 you is about as unpleasant a thing as can be 
 done. So to improve this state of things 
 Temple turned his displeasure from himself to 
 Cathie. 
 
 How little she had really loved him ! How 
 little she had trusted him! With her hand in his, 
 she had, at the last moment, drawn back. It 
 was really the loaves and the fishes she wanted 
 after all. She wanted to be established at Up- 
 cott Hall. He bit his lips till the blood came. 
 She had deceived him from the first, and mocked 
 him at the last. This experience he had entered on 
 
} 
 
 288 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 ^1 
 
 1 
 
 1^ 
 
 ■* 
 
 
 1 
 
 with such a light hcrrt had ended disastrously for 
 him. He had always had a faint suspicion it might 
 end disastrously for the girl. But she was safe 
 — while he ! God, wht^t a wreck of a man he was ! 
 His love for Cathie had been tortured into hatred. 
 Yes ; he hated her — he was sure he did. Here 
 he stood, with love played out, and scarcely one 
 instant's satisfaction in it. He had thought — he 
 would have staked his life on it indeed — that he 
 loved Cathie with a love that could never diminish. 
 He had looked forward to a far future, when, 
 though unrecognised by the world, she would still 
 be to him the best, the dearest. And now! love 
 was already dead. He felt nothing but anger. 
 She had been ungrateful ; she had been heart- 
 less ; she had amused herself at his expense. 
 He had thought she would pour out the 
 riches of her love upon him, and dare any- 
 thing for his sake. She had poured out noth- 
 ing ; she had dared nothing. It had all been a 
 horrible affair, and his fingers had been badly 
 burnt. 
 
 He was very wretched. He had thought beyond 
 a doubt that he absolutely loved crazy Cathie. True, 
 he had not thought so till she parted the boughs 
 of their bower, and stood before him after an 
 absence of many weeks. It had rushed upon him 
 then that he must love her henceforth and for 
 ever. And now ! Yet, surely, what he had felt at 
 that moment was love. If so, then, why had it 
 

 I any- 
 noth- 
 
 been a 
 badly 
 
 THE AWU.'ENiNG. 
 
 289 
 
 not lasted? Temple was still young, and had not 
 fully grasped the fact that even heart emotions 
 may prove only transitory. 
 
 Since what he had felt for Cathie had not been 
 love, how was he to know love ? How was any one 
 to know love? 
 
 Until he met Cathie he had thought he loved 
 Elsie. Was he to go through life like this? 
 Always under the impression he had met the 
 one girl of his heart, until misfortune threw an- 
 other in his path, whom he loved rather better. 
 It must be stopped— it was degrading. He would 
 go away at once and propose to Elsie, and finish 
 the whole business. 
 
 But he had lost all confidence in himself. How 
 could he be sure marriage would prove a seal 
 to his actions? In the case of Cathie, he had 
 acted in the most inconsequent way. Well, he 
 would be on his guard now, so that he should 
 not act inconsequently again. 
 
 Yet when he thought of marriage with Elsie 
 he felt too utterly dispirited to go through with 
 It. No; the best possible thing he could do 
 was to go away, and forget everything for a 
 while. 
 
 He would speak to Lord Frobisher, and see if 
 he would let him have the necessary cash for a 
 trip round the worid. He did not suppose he 
 would like the suggestion,-nor did he. Eventu- 
 ally, however, he consented, and Temple started 
 
 T 
 
290 
 
 POSTLE FARM. 
 
 globe-trotting, in search of his lost self-respect, 
 and to learn exactly, if possible, when an emotion 
 of the heart means love, and when it only means 
 something transient as a dewdrop, and much less 
 transparent. 
 
respect, 
 emotion 
 r means 
 uch less 
 
 2yi 
 
 CHAPTER LVr. 
 
 The months that followed Temple's departure were 
 unhappy ones to Elsie. She had expected him, 
 even if he did not favour her with an open declara- 
 tion, to give her some sure sign that his heart 
 was hers. But he had left her without giving 
 her any reason to believe that he eventually meant 
 to make her his wife. 
 
 Mrs Clavers did not improve matters by openly 
 expressing her disapprobation of his conduct. 
 
 "If there is a class of young men I more 
 thoroughly despise than another," she said severely, 
 " it is the class that leads girls on, and then make 
 their escape to the Continent. I shall refuse him 
 the house if he dares to return ! " 
 
 " I am sure he never lead me on. I never dreamt 
 for a moment he meant anything," said Elsie; for 
 even the most truthful girls are apt, under some 
 circumstances, to make indignant denials that are 
 contrary to their feelings. "The last thing I ex- 
 pected him to do was to propose." 
 

 i 
 
 1 
 
 R|; 
 
 WU 
 
 ?92 
 
 •pOSTir. FARM. 
 
 " Then why this depression ? " demanded Mrs 
 Clavers. 
 
 Mrs Clavers had always been a very happy 
 woman herself, and she could not understand un- 
 happiness in others. She was a little inclined to 
 think happiness is of one's own choosing. It an- 
 noyed her to think Elsie had had an unfortunate 
 love-affair ; it did not excite her sympathy. She 
 was disposed to think her own happiness was not 
 bestowed by a gracious Providence, but rather 
 by her own intervention. She regarded health in 
 the same way. If her daughter were ill she was 
 quite annoyed, and resented all kind inquiries. She 
 had never been ill Why should Elsie be? 
 
293 
 
 CHAPTER LVU. 
 
 Lady Gamble had a nephew. He had hai)penecl 
 to drop in in a friendly way at 'Postle Farm on 
 the afternoon Cathie had been asked there 
 
 When a woman is particularly beautiful a man's 
 love for her is more or less conceived at first sight 
 He desires her as we all desire the beautiful, though 
 often but imperfectly understanding wherein the 
 beautiful consists. Provided he discovers no violent 
 temper or hateful fault-or sometimes in spite of 
 these-the little root of love, planted at that first 
 meeting, blossoms and bears fruit - especially in 
 the young and inexperienced heart. 
 
 Cyril Wain found a sudden charm in Upcott 
 The world to him became a changed world since 
 the afternoon he drank tea at 'Postle Farm He 
 came often to the School Cottage, first on one 
 pretext then another. He took to attending both 
 morn.ng and evening church there. If he bicycled 
 It was on the Upcott road. If he drove, if he' 
 walked, it was still the Upcott road And often 
 
»s 
 
 in 
 
 I. 
 
 I* s 
 
 it: 
 
 ](.--.■ 
 
 294 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 he was rewarded by a ijlinipse of Cathie, or even 
 by a few sentences exchanged with her. 
 
 " I cannot think why Mr Wain comes so often to 
 Upcott now," said Mrs Eliot, one day as she and 
 Cathie were sitting at breakfast. 
 
 " You know as well as I do," said Cathie, calmly. 
 
 " It is your duty, dear, to discourage him," said 
 Mrs Eliot, when she had recovered from the first 
 surprise. 
 
 "I know." 
 
 No more was said. 
 
 That evening, as Mrs Eliot, Cathie, and Laury 
 were returning from taking a stroll through the 
 Mjods that bordered Upcott, they met Cyril. 
 
 Cathie walked on. 
 
 " I must make up for lost time," she said. 
 
 When Mrs Eliot came in a few minutes later, 
 -iic found Cathie already at work. 
 
 " You are a good dear girl ! " she said. 
 
 "Why should I want to jibber-jaw — talk, I mean 
 - with he — him ? " 
 
 One afternoon, as Cathie was putting on her hat 
 to walk out, Mrs Eliot said — 
 
 "May I speak to you, dear.? I have something 
 important to say." 
 
 Cathie turned her dark eyes on Mrs Eliot with a 
 curious expression and sat down. 
 
 " You have noticed/' began Mrs Eliot, nervously, 
 • that Mr Wain has — admires you very much." 
 
THE AVVAKKNING. 
 
 295 
 
 Cathie yawned. 
 
 " He spoke to me to-day. I told him he must not 
 dream of marrying you." 
 
 " f should think' not ! " said Cathie. 
 
 "I told him," continued Mrs Eliot, "that his aunt 
 would never forgive me the blow. You have no feel- 
 ing for him, dear, have you ? " she almost pleaded. 
 
 " None." 
 
 "And you will not try to have? I know you are 
 ambitious, and " 
 
 "I'm not ambitious to marry the wrong man'" 
 said Cathie. 
 
 "What have you against him? I am afraid it 
 means your heart is already engaged somewhere 
 else, said Mrs Eliot; "and although it helps me 
 out of my present difficulty, I do hope your heart's 
 choice has been wise." 
 
 " I didn' say I'd made a heart's choice ! " said 
 Cathie, frowning. 
 
 "You know. Cathie, dear, you are very incompre- 
 hensible, and I want to understand you, and it 
 occurred to me you perhaps had an object in view 
 for studying so hard. If you would just tell me a 
 httle about yourself, I might perhaps be able to help 
 you." '■ 
 
 Cathie was silent. She resented this cross- 
 examination. 
 
 "You must not be angry with me, Cathie," said 
 Mrs Eliot; "only I can't help feeling anxious about 
 your future. I do hope, if you have given your 
 
'5 : 
 lit- 
 
 IT.-! 
 
 H" 
 
 m 
 
 !■ 
 
 I 
 
 * 
 
 'M 
 
 1^ 1 
 
 296 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 heart to any one, it is somebody you can depend 
 U[)on." 
 
 To her surprise Cathie answered — 
 
 " I don't know as how I can." 
 
 "That does not sound very promising," said Mrs 
 Eliot. "A man that cannot be depended on is 
 hardly the man to make you a happy wife. Is he 
 equal to you in station ? " 
 
 "No," said Cathie, a mischievous light flashing in 
 her eye. " But there ! what's the odds o' that so 
 long as I love 'n?" 
 
 "Is he what you call in these parts a good 
 getter ? " 
 
 " Very," said Cathie, emphatically. 
 
 " But he is not your equal ? Then surely your 
 education is a desperate mistake?" 
 
 " I alway loved learnin', and wanted for know 
 things before ever I met him. Of course if I get to 
 know morc'n he, I can teach un it — see ? " 
 
 "When you said he was not your equal did you 
 mean in character or station ? " 
 
 " I reckon when a girl loves she don't think the 
 man she's lovin' not equal to her in character, any- 
 way ! " 
 
 " You said he was not to be depended upon, and 
 not your equal in station. I'm afraid, Cathie, you 
 have not much chance of happiness," said Mrs Eliot, 
 sadly. " Promise to do nothing definite without con- 
 sulting me," she said, after a pause. " I think you 
 owe this to me," 
 
depend 
 
 id Mrs 
 
 on 
 
 is 
 
 Is 
 
 he 
 
 hing 
 
 in 
 
 that 
 
 so 
 
 a good 
 
 [y your 
 
 r know 
 [ get to 
 
 lid you 
 
 ink the 
 ir, any- 
 
 on, and 
 lie, you 
 •s Eliot, 
 3ut con- 
 nk you 
 
 297 
 
 THE AWAKENING. 
 Cathie hesitated. 
 
 -u-e. You wi,i not be Ui^Ilo le cl" T"*^ 
 
 undertake so taportant a step without fir^"' ^r" 
 ing me." *^ vvunout hrst consult- 
 
 Cathie rose to her feet restlesslv Ti, 
 
 sudden smile, she turned to mTku\ ,'"' "''^ "" 
 " I'll n-^^- *'''°' »nJ sa d— 
 
 '11 promise you one thing_I won't m u 
 
 neath me without telling you Lf ""^ '''■ 
 
 room": '"■°' ^"""^ "- "-^ - Cathie ie. the 
 
 to 'e'd^S t 'eistr ^"^ '^^^ '^""^^'^'^ ^^vice 
 ner elsewhere was best Tho u . 
 mistress was retiirn;«o. u . "^ school- 
 
 Cathie wouid b n "L ''' ""' *"" '^"°' '•^^ 
 
 resumed her or^LTy ;r """"" '° ''' ^^'^ «"« 
 ^^ A^they were sitting together next evening, she 
 
 toV: rsi":, 'jz::r'-- ^- -■ cathi. 
 
 ;; No "said Cathie; "I,, bide where I be." 
 "NoT:"f'^.^'<^--'^''MrsE,iot.- 
 
 "bide where I be'- .^T'^' ''"'°^' Passionately; 
 outside, in the little i I ^°' "^ ^''^Pt'^' ^nd 
 
298 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 " Ride where I be ! " she repeated determinedly. 
 " Ay, ay, from now to Michachiias, and from Michael- 
 mas to now — year in, year out, I'll bide where I be ; 
 and if he never comes — if I never see him ! Ah ! 
 but he will, he will ! I shall ! If I bide where I be, 
 I shall surely see him one day ! " 
 
 And half a hundred miles away a man and woman 
 walked together and plighted their troth. 
 
 And the man remembered a past that for a brief 
 season had seemed beautiful, but was now dust and 
 ashes, fast being pressed into the limbo of forget- 
 fulness. 
 
 ■■ If 
 
linedly. 
 lichael- 
 re I be ; 
 ! Ah! 
 :re I be, 
 
 299 
 
 I woman 
 
 a brief 
 dust and 
 f forget- 
 
 CHAPTER LVIII. 
 
 ONE evening: Catherine was sitting in the garden 
 studyng:. when the sound of hr>rsc's hoofs made her 
 ra.se her head. She did it absently, rapidly con- 
 jugatin^r a French verb the while 
 
 Cyril reined in his horse, dismounted, and came 
 up the httle narrow garden-path. Catherine was 
 annoyed at the interruption, but already too well- 
 mannered to evince it. You cannot live in close 
 daily contact with a gentlewoman for several 
 months without reflecting her somewhat, unless 
 you are unusually obtuse. 
 
 Cyril held in his hand a beautiful bunch of roses • 
 these he held out to her, saying— 
 
 "I have brought you these. They looked so fresh 
 and their colour was so fine." 
 "Mrs Eliot will be pleased with them," said Cathie 
 inank you very much." 
 " I brought them for you," he said. 
 "Ah, but you should not!" and she looked the 
 young man full in the face, with an expression that 
 was not far removed from motherly. 
 
V'4 
 
 \ HA 
 
 
 
 m 
 
 300 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 lie was a straight-limbed, tall, fair young fellow, 
 exc(Cclin,£Tly unlike his aunt. He was the sort of 
 fellow one knows instinctivel}' had a gentle, well- 
 bred woman for his mother ; and one knows also 
 he will never shame her. 
 
 " Why should I not ? " he said. " May I sit out 
 here a little while, or are you busy ^ " 
 
 " Not busier than usual," she answered, smiling ; 
 "but when a body's close on fifteen years behind 
 with an education, it tak's a bit o' time to make it 
 up like. Now, what did I say wrong in that ?" 
 
 " Oh, nothing ! " he answered fervently. 
 
 " Ah," she said, " you're not kind ! you won't tell ! " 
 
 "Doesn't it bore you to death to be caught up 
 every time you speak?" 
 
 " No, because I want to learn — I must learn. 
 The people it bores to death is them as has to catch 
 me up. Now, what's there wrong in that ? " 
 
 "Don't come to me to tell you. I like your 
 P2n<^lish just as it is." 
 
 " Do you really ? " she asked, leaning forward 
 with a sudden eagerness. Then her face fell a 
 little, and she sighed, and did not heed his 
 answer. 
 
 ■' Now, will you hear me this ? " she asked, holding 
 out a French book of poetry. " I like ^rench — 
 seems like my native tongue." 
 
 "What! like Devonshire?" 
 
 "And why not? Didn't the French hang about 
 this western coast a deal ? Ah, but my Devonshire ! 
 
 M 
 
THE AWAKENING. 
 
 301 
 
 "ellovv, 
 ort of 
 , well- 
 s also 
 
 sit out 
 
 niling ; 
 behind 
 lake it 
 
 't tell ! " 
 ight up 
 
 t learn. 
 :o catch 
 
 ce your 
 
 forward 
 e fell a 
 eed his 
 
 , holding 
 •"rench — 
 
 r\<T about 
 
 ^o 
 
 nshire 
 
 Why do I love un so?" She suddenly covered her 
 face with her hands. " And what good will it bring 
 me breaking of it off? sometimes I ask; some*^ 
 times I wonder." 
 
 There were tears in her eyes. 
 
 " Look at me," she said ; " ain't I silly ? I wonder 
 was ever any one in this world a-satisficd ? I wonder 
 if everybody ain't always a-longing for something 
 they an't got?" 
 
 It had grown dusk, and she rose and led the way 
 into the cottage. 
 
 "There be that moth in the candle; fancies he 
 wants more light, and it only burns him. P'rap. 
 I'm like the moth. Sometimes I get cruel dis- 
 couraged. However, I ain't goin' to give in.' Hear 
 us the poetry, will 'ee ? " 
 
 And the young man sat holding the tattered 
 French poetry book, the candlelight falling full on 
 his clear, wholesome skin ; and near him sat Cathie 
 in her white gown, and leaning forward with her 
 hands clasped, while she laboriously repeated 
 French poetry. 
 
 ^ One could picture for the young man a touchingly 
 simple old age,— grandchildren about his knees; 
 but for the girl it was difficult to picture a future.' 
 The eyes, all fire and softness, the determined chin, 
 the strangely expressive mouth, the delicate nostril' 
 haughty and refined, the ambition expressed in the' 
 magnificent poise of the head. Hers was a future 
 none could gauge. 
 
I 
 
 11 
 
 302 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 There was a step outside on the gravel. The door 
 stood wide open, and with a "May I come in?" 
 Montague entered. He had come for a book Mrs 
 Ehot had promised to lend Madge. 
 
 It was as if a strong magnetic current passed 
 through Cathie. Anything that reminded her of 
 'Postle Farm made her heart beat faster. She rose 
 to her feet, and stood confronting Montague, and 
 for a moment or two neither spoke. It was the 
 first time Cathie had ever consciously observed him. 
 
 "If I had a trouble I'd tak' it to un," was the 
 thought that flashed through her mind. 
 
 And then the slow smile broke upon her face — 
 the smile that had once sent Temple's heart a-beat- 
 ing, and now caused poor Cyril, looking up from the 
 tattered leaves of the French poetry book, to swallow 
 hard a couple of times, and set his teeth. 
 
303 
 
 CHAPTER LIX. 
 
 i ■ 
 
 Meanwhile Temple had returned from his globe- 
 trotting. He had shot for two months on the 
 Rocky Mountains ; he had lived a gay life in New 
 York, and the American belles had shed their 
 dazzling light upon him; he had toiled in the 
 mines of Australia, and idled on the hills of 
 Bombay. Of women, however, he had all the while 
 been distinctly afraid. When he looked into hand- 
 some eyes he was fearful lest they should lure him 
 into a semblance of love. But as time passed he 
 plucked up courage, and when he set foot again on 
 English shore, and found himself once more in the 
 presence of Elsie Clavers, he asked himself— 
 
 " What can I do better than marry her if she will 
 have me ? " 
 
 So one afternoon, about a fortnight after his 
 return, he asked the momentous question, and 
 received the momentous answer. 
 
 Mrs Clavers was radiant ; but, afraid of appearing 
 too much so, she let fly little sarcasms at Tempi'' 
 
 which he tried to bear 
 
 unflinchingly, but which 
 
I 
 
 ■ I : 
 
 i i 
 
 w. 
 
 304 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 nevertheless, found out the weak places in his 
 armour, and made him wince. 
 
 Elsie was quite a different kind ot woman. She 
 covered him with her loving confidence, and wrapped 
 him in a wonderful halo of perfection, and poured 
 out her simple affection almost with the artlessncss 
 of a child. And Temple received it all, and tried 
 to think himself blessed beyond all blessing, rich 
 beyond all measure. 
 
 But his heart was a miserable dead thing, and he 
 knew it. The fire, the passion, was swept away. It 
 was not even an empty vessel, or then there might 
 have been hope. It was a vessel full to the brim, 
 but the contents were frozen. 
 
 Some people grow old so gently — here a little 
 and there a little, line upon line, precept upon 
 precept — that they have no notion of advancing 
 time till they suddenly find themselves on the table- 
 land of middle age. The smiling valley of youth 
 lies far below them, and the steep mountain summit 
 before them. 
 
 Others, on the contrary, can remember the very 
 hour, the precise moment, when youth left them. 
 They can point unerringly to just the spot on the 
 mounting path where the step lost its lightness and 
 the heart its nre. So it had been with Temple. 
 
 It was an understood thing that his engagement 
 with Elsie must continue till Lord Frobisher's death. 
 Mrs Clavers was firm on this point. She remem- 
 
THE AWAKENING. 305 
 
 bered the old adage, "There's many a shp 'twixt 
 the cup and the lip." She did not intend Elsie to 
 marry a pauper. 
 
 To Temple his long engagement was a purgatory 
 f only he could settle down into a quiet married 
 
 lile all would be well, he felt. 
 
 He wanted to be happy and light-hearted, and 
 he usually succeeded in making people think hin. 
 so. But when he was alone Fate weighed upon 
 him. He had kept his return to England a se:ret 
 from Lord Frobisher for three weeks, and, on writ- 
 ing, Lord Frobisher wired him from Brighton It 
 was not until the following spring he was obliged 
 to pay his dreaded visit to the Hall. 
 
 Yes; there it stood, with its old, grey, weather- 
 beaten walls! For the first time after all his 
 wanderings he saw it. His heart thumped against 
 nis side; his head was dizzy. 
 
 No, no ; he had not behaved well to her f But 
 then he had intended to behave better than hun- 
 dreds of other men. He had not meant to do 
 her any harm. Only he had suddenly ceased to 
 love her,-that was the dreadful part. Howcvc^ 
 closely he had adhered to the programme he had 
 marked out for himself, in the very fact of his 
 ceasmg to love her the injury was done -the 
 woman was wronged. 
 
 If he ceased to love her because she had refused 
 
 
 
l.f '1 
 
 
 ■v \ * 
 
 306 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 to throw in her life with his, what would have 
 happened had she poured out the fulness of a 
 loving heart to him ? 
 
 Along the beaten path of such life-sacrifices, we 
 know what happens. And as Temple stood and 
 faced the frowning walls of the old farm, he tried 
 to thresh the subject out. Would the old happy 
 content never come back to him ? What had he 
 done to forfeit it .^ He had not sinned ! 
 
 And whose fault was it that he had not sinned? 
 
 " Cathie, Cathie ! " he cried brokenly, for the 
 first time facing the whole truth of the matter. 
 " You were too good for me ! I did not deserve 
 you, and I lost you ! You were infinitely f. r 
 above me ! I could not reach you. I have lost 
 you now — for even, if you could forgive me, I am 
 no longer free to ask it ! " 
 
 Heaven had stooped and given him love ; he had 
 turned aside, and love must perish. 
 
 :! ; 
 
lid have 
 :ss of a 
 
 307 
 
 ■ 1 
 
 ifices, we 
 ood and 
 he tried 
 id happy 
 ; had he 
 
 ' sinned? 
 
 for the 
 
 ; matter. 
 
 t deserve 
 
 litely r, r 
 tiave lost 
 ne, I am 
 
 \ : he had 
 
 CHAPTER LX. 
 
 Temple looked out from his bedroom window. He 
 must go and tell her all. It was only fair to her 
 that he should explain. But his mentor told him 
 no. He must write. 
 
 He knew in his own secret soul, to meet her now 
 would be madness. He dreaded, above all things, 
 his courage failing; and he tried, with all the 
 strength of his nature, to keep his thoughts from 
 dwelling on her. 
 
 It was early spring. Dazzling clouds floated 
 over the radiant sun at rapid intervals, and cast 
 over the shining landscape shadows like dimples 
 on the cheek of laughter. Temple told himself, 
 with a persistency that argued otherwise, that he 
 was not thinking of the old farm, nor even of 
 Cathie. 
 
 Suddenly he found himself picturing how it 
 would look under the changing aspect of the day. 
 He shot a quick, almost feverish, glance across the 
 river. 
 
 The white wings of a sea-gull fluttered against the 
 
308 
 
 'POSTI !•; FARM. 
 
 ML'^' 
 
 grey walls for an instant, like the spirit of love 
 seeking rest and finding none, and the simli^^ht 
 flashed for one brilliant instant on its wings. Then 
 came shadow. 
 
 To get away from temptation he ordered a horse 
 and rode into Upcott. He put his horse up at the 
 " Long Bider " inn. with the intention of looking 
 through the papers in the Free Library. But he 
 was too restless to sit and read. He got up and 
 walked through the larch wood that led to the 
 high road. 
 
 The larches, for him, were not there. The old 
 grey farm was before him, with its windowlcss 
 walls that faced the river, and the grey green hi!' 
 stretching below and above. 
 
 Then suddenly Cathie stood before him. At 
 first, in the glamour of his own imagination, he 
 thought his brain had conjured her there. He 
 started back. Then he understood. He was too 
 much enthralled by the fact that it was she, to 
 notice the wonderful change in her appearance. 
 
 " Cathie ! " he cried. Then he finished hoarsely, 
 " I am not free. I belong to some one else ! " 
 
 She turned white to the lips — slowly — as though the 
 thought were getting nearer and nearer to her heart. 
 
 " Forgive me ! " he groaned. " I was mad. I 
 was worse — a fool. All this while I never knew. 
 Then suddenly I understood. I knew then I 
 wanted nothing in all the world but you to be 
 my wife! But it's too late — too late!" 
 
THE AWAKKNING. 
 
 309 
 
 ; of love 
 
 simli^dit 
 
 s. Then 
 
 i a horse 
 Lip at the 
 f looking 
 But he 
 t up and 
 d to the 
 
 The old 
 indowlcss 
 jreen hi!' 
 
 im. At 
 ation, he 
 ;re. He 
 
 was too 
 > she, to 
 ranee, 
 hoarsely, 
 Ise ! " 
 lough the 
 ler heart, 
 mad. I 
 er knew. 
 
 then I 
 )U to be 
 
 She stood so still,— only looking at him with 
 eyes that seemed to read his soul. 
 
 " For God's sake say something ! " he gasped. 
 "Say you hate me! say you despise mc— or, best 
 of all, if you only could — say you forgive me! 
 Oh!" he cried, turning away, "what a loathsome 
 hound I've been ! " 
 
 He felt her arms about him. 
 
 "Do you forgive me.?" he cried; and though 
 the blood coursed through his veins he would not 
 take the kiss he craved. 
 
 Then her arms stole upwards as she answered, 
 speaking slowly and with difficulty— 
 
 "There is no forgiveness in love. It has noth- 
 ing to forgive ! " 
 
 And ere the words had quite left her parted lips, 
 he kissed her. 
 
 She was weeping. Not with sorrow. The sorrow 
 of it all was at that moment blotted out with the 
 exceeding joy that he was ready to make her his 
 wife — yes; though she were only a farm-girl in 
 rags. He had spoken for her, and she did not 
 doubt him. He had come to her desiring nothing 
 but to call her his. And she had wanted this. She 
 had wanted him to love her for the soul that was 
 within her, and the poor trappings of the body 
 she had wanted to slip from his sight and fall 
 in ashes at his feet. This is how women like to 
 be loved, and how men never love. Women who 
 
310 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 
 I 
 
 If Ml I 
 
 want it, want what is impossible, and when Temple 
 overlooked Cathie's birth, her rags, her education, 
 he overlooked as much as one could expect a 
 man to. Had Cathie been less beautiful Temple 
 would never have wanted to call her his. 
 
 He loved her for her soul ; but he loved her also 
 for the beautiful casket that held it. 
 
 
Temple 
 lucation, 
 xpect a 
 
 Temple 
 
 her also 
 
 3n 
 
 CHAPTER LXI. 
 
 Cathie walked home in a bewildered state. For 
 eighteen months she had been working ardently 
 for Temple, and now she could never bring the 
 rich offering of her patience to his feet. He be- 
 longed to another. It was beyond her power just 
 then to grasp the thought. It was like the sudden 
 discharge of a cannon close at hand that leaves 
 one stunned, and unable for the moment to identify 
 the cause. Or it was to her as if she had been 
 climbing laboriously up a steep hill, believing that 
 at the summit a magnificent tableland would stretch 
 before her, and as she reached the utmost crag 
 and looked out with eager, gladdened eyes, beheld 
 a bottomless abyss. She had reached the end of 
 all things. 
 
 Mrs Eliot was startled by her quietude. After 
 tea she had drawn out her books from force of 
 habit, but she sat listless over tnem. Her eyes 
 stared blankly on the page. Then suddenly the 
 full tide of realisation swept upon her. Oh! it 
 was too much, too much to bear ! She could bear 
 
ii 
 
 m 
 
 A 
 
 ¥ ■■i 
 
 312 
 
 'POSTI-K FARM. 
 
 miicli, but not this. Not to lose him, just as she 
 was ahnost worthy of him. There was no com- 
 passionate God. There was no Lord who was 
 mindful of her sorrows. All her life she had had 
 nothing but taunts and gibes and bruises. She 
 had been crushed and ground down under the 
 heel of adversity. She would not be any longer. 
 She would take her fate in her own hands. 
 She started from her seat and swept the books 
 to the floor. She stamped upon them with her 
 feet. She was maddened with grief. 
 
 " She is crazy, as the country people said ! " was 
 Mrs Eliot's first thought, as she started trembling 
 towards the girl. 
 
 "Don't, don't!" Cathie cried. "Keep away! 
 I'm not responsible ! I'm mad I " 
 
 Mrs Eliot shrank back in terror. She was alone 
 in the cottage, and a great fear of Cathie fell 
 upon her. 
 
 " Compose yourself, Cathie ! " she said, trying to 
 speak firmly. 
 
 " Compose myself ! Yes ; when your heart is 
 bruised and torn and battered and kicked about 
 from pillar to post. Compose yourself! Bah!" 
 
 This was madness. Mrs Eliot slipped to the 
 door ; she would run for the doctor. Fortunately 
 for her beating heart the doctor's house was but 
 a stone's throw from her own. She startled the 
 inmates by peal after peal at the door bell. The 
 doctor was giving a quiet dinner - party, in the 
 
 « 
 
 1 1 
 
 iid 
 
THE AWAKENING. 
 
 2^3 
 
 t as she 
 lo com- 
 ho was 
 lad had 
 s. She 
 ider the 
 ' longer. 
 I hands. 
 B books 
 irith her 
 
 d ! " was 
 ambling 
 
 away ! 
 
 as alone 
 thie fell 
 
 rying to 
 
 heart is 
 d about 
 3ahl" 
 1 to the 
 tunately 
 was but 
 tied the 
 11. The 
 in the 
 
 middle of which he had already been called out 
 Montague was of the party 
 
 "Mrs Kliot!" he cried -the first to grasp the 
 situation-and an awful pallor crept into his heart 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "Cathie!" she gasped, pointing in the direction 
 of the schoolhouse. Mortague waited for no more 
 — he ran. ' 
 
 He reached the schoolhouse just as Cathie flun-r 
 open the door. She was going; she didn't knovv 
 where, and she didn't care. 
 
 At the sight of him she paused, and he led her back 
 
 " What is it > " he asked. 
 
 She looked and looked. Then she turned and 
 sat down quietly. 
 
 " Yes, I'll tell 'ee," she said, with a little sob. 
 
 He sat down, too, and waited. 
 
 " I loved a man," she said at 'ast. " God. how I 
 loved un ! He never meant me fair and straight 
 but I trusted un." Every particle of colour went 
 out of Montague's face. The fear he had gradu- 
 ally put from him returned in a tide of convic- 
 tion. She stopped a moment and pressed her 
 hands together. "I trusted un," she repeated. "I 
 felt so sure he'd come back to me. I kind of 
 knowed he would. And to-day he came, but- 
 not for me. He's married another!" 
 
 There was a long silence. Then she suddenly 
 drew herself up and looked straight at Montague. 
 "An' what do I care?" she cried. 
 
314 
 
 POSTLE FARM. 
 
 "You mustn't say that," said Montague. "You 
 care very much. But you can Hve it down. You 
 must care. If you cease to care you will lose 
 your self-respect ! " 
 
 " On the contrary, I shall keep it ! " she answered, 
 not understanding his thought. " I shall keep it ! " 
 she repeated, " but it hit me cruel hard ! " 
 
 She rocked herself to and fro a minute, and the 
 tears came. 
 
 " He was so gentle," she said, " and he always 
 meant well by me — I know he did. But, some- 
 how, he didn't know the stuff I was made on. 
 He couldn't seem someways to see I'd a-got a 
 determination to carry me through 'most any 
 place. Queer, wasn't it ? 'Cause he loved me — 
 yet he couldn't tak' the measure o' me. He 
 couldn't think I could work myself up, like, and 
 be a lady. I know what a lady is, bless 'ee. 
 'Tisn't education an' fine clothes — it's the inward 
 heart o' mun. An' I'd a-made all that for un 
 because — well, of course, I just loved him. And 
 he wasn't to blame because he couldn't see what 
 I'd make of myself! That wasn't no fault of his! 
 He thought I'd always bide as I was — just a 
 rough farm - girl — so how could he marry me, 
 thinking that?" 
 
 Montague made no answer. 
 
 " Supposing, now," said she, " I was a rough 
 farm-maid, an' 'ee'd seen a lot o' me, an' knew 
 me, an' loved me; well, now, would 'ee make a 
 
f 
 
 "You 
 I. You 
 ill lose 
 
 iswered, 
 ;ep it!" 
 
 and the 
 
 always 
 t, some- 
 ade on. 
 a-got a 
 ost any 
 sd me — 
 le. He 
 like, and 
 )less 'ee. 
 e inward 
 t for un 
 m. And 
 see what 
 It of his ! 
 — just a 
 larry me, 
 
 a rough 
 an' knew 
 - make a 
 
 THE AWAKENING. 3,3 
 
 wiTeo'mc? 'Course not ! » Then, after a moment's 
 pause, very wistfully. "'Ee wouldn', would 'ee ?" 
 
 " If I once felt you were the won)an created for 
 me I should know your possibilities, and, in short 
 I should not hesitate," said Montague. "But that 
 IS entirely beside the question. You belonr, to 
 another. I have known that from the first It is 
 not possible to judge one man's actions by an- 
 other's. But this I will tell you,"-and he rose 
 and clenched his fist, while the veins swelled in 
 his forehead,-" If the man you arc speaking of 
 were here, no power on earth would stop me from 
 taking h.m by the throat and breaking every 
 bone m his body! He's a cur, and I'd shake him 
 Ike a rat! He's a despicable mean hound, and 
 I d horsewhip him ! I tell you that man's not fit 
 done'r ^''"~'"^' ^^°^ ^°^' ^^^at has he not 
 
 He was too much agitated to notice the fury 
 that Diazed in her eyes. The first thing that re- 
 called her presence was the icy cold tones of her 
 voice. 
 
 "Have you quite finished? Because the door is 
 tnere. It only needs opening." 
 
 "I spoke too hotly," he said, in quick self- 
 reproach. 
 
 "Yo-. did. The man you spoke of is the man 
 1 love," 
 
 I Of course ! " he said ; " I had forgotten." 
 "If you forget again " 
 

 1::^ 
 
 fl 
 
 * i '■ 
 
 'i 
 
 I 
 
 316 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 " I know ; you will never speak to me after." 
 
 Already there was the sound of returning foot- 
 steps hurrying up the path. 
 
 " One thing only," said Montague, hurriedly ; *• be 
 true to yourself, to your higher instincts, and care 
 for that man still, while you have a breath to 
 breathe with. Never cheat yourself into believing 
 that you don't. For God's sake give yourself to 
 no other, unless it be to a man you respect." 
 
 Mrs Eliot threw open the door and entered with 
 the doctor. 
 
 " She is better now," said Montague. " The 
 attack has passed," and, without looking again in 
 Cathie's direction, he shook hands with Mrs Eliot, 
 and was about to leave, but Cathie riveted him. 
 Standing up straight and firm she pointed to the 
 door. 
 
 " I won't see no doctor," she said. " Either him 
 or me goes out of that door." 
 
 Montague whispered a word to the d':ct-or. 
 
 "My dear young lady," he said, " th;: isn't a 
 professional visit." And he sat down and con- 
 versed with them both. He left shortly, assuring 
 Mrs Eliot by many nods and signs that she had 
 nothing to fear. 
 
 *• I was just a-strivin' to mak' up my mind over 
 something," said Cathie, when the door closed 
 behind him. "And now I've done it, and I'll tell 
 'ee what 'tis. I'm mortal sick someways of learn- 
 ing here ; I'm going to London to learn." 
 
THE AWAKENING. 
 
 317 
 
 ;er. 
 
 r foot- 
 
 /\ "be 
 
 id care 
 
 ath to 
 
 ilieving 
 
 rself to 
 
 ;t." 
 
 ed with 
 
 "The 
 Lgain in 
 s Eliot, 
 ed him. 
 , to the 
 
 her him 
 
 or. 
 
 isn't a 
 nd con- 
 assuring 
 she had 
 
 The air of Upcott seemed to Cathie as if it 
 would choke her. She felt she must go away until 
 she had conquered some of the heartbreak within 
 her. 
 
 "Going to London.? That will be fearfully ex- 
 pensive! You will run through all your poor 
 grandfather's savings in a year, and then what 
 will happen ? " 
 
 "I can get other money," she answered. "I've 
 got other." 
 
 Mrs Eliot had learnt that when Cathie made up 
 her mind to a thing it was useless to try and dis- 
 suade her. She therefore made no further objec- 
 tion, and she promised to find a suitable place for 
 the girl to go to. 
 
 "If she were a man," she said to herself, "she 
 would work her way up to a premiership. As a 
 woman, I suppose, she will merely make a brilliant 
 match." 
 
 ind over 
 r closed 
 . I'll tell 
 of learn- 
 
f 
 
 3«8 
 
 I 
 
 *"* 
 
 E; * 
 
 CHAPTER LXII. 
 
 No thought of an onlooker had troubled Temple 
 and Catherine when they met in the larch wood. 
 They were too much absorbed in each other to be 
 troubled by any outside thought. But a man at 
 work amongst the fallen timber saw them. 
 
 " If I can't 'ave the me-aid myself, by she 
 
 shan't 'ave no other man 'fore I've shamed 'er for 
 a witch," he cried, with his lowering gaze upon 
 them. " 'Er tricked me out o' a luck wi' Bessie, 
 I always know 'er did ! Ah, but if I could get 
 'er! Theer mus' be some'at 'bout 'er or thiccy 
 cussed clean shaver wouldn' be 'avin a dab for *er. 
 That old cuss Grandfer'd a-saved a middlin' pile, 
 I knows. See *ow the maid carr'es on wi' 'er learnin' 
 an' 'er fiddle-sticks. See 'ow 'er clothies 'erself. I'll 
 draw blood from 'er for a witch yet, see if I don't. 
 'Er b'ain't easy for skeer, I know, but I'll skeer 'cr 
 this time— I'll bet I will!" 
 
 This required management, and he set to work 
 to do it. He wanted to get back into Mrs 
 Mallard's good books ; he wanted very much to 
 
THE AWAKENING. 
 
 319 
 
 persuade her it was all along of "thiccy avil-c\cd 
 witch Cathie " that he had dared to aspire to the 
 hand of Bessie. If he could arrange to bring 
 Cathie to Stibb Farm, just as Mrs Mollard was 
 working the charm, she would believe him, and 
 he — he would have the satisfaction of drawing 
 blood from her as a witch, and breaking her 
 power. 
 
 Femple 
 I wood. 
 :r to be 
 man at 
 
 she 
 
 'er for 
 
 e upon 
 
 Bessie, 
 
 uld get 
 
 ■ thiccy 
 
 for 'er. 
 
 in' pile, 
 
 learnin' 
 
 elf. I'll 
 
 I don't. 
 
 ikeer 'er 
 
 to work 
 ito Mrs 
 nuch to 
 
 • • • 
 
 "'Ave 'ee stecked the 'eart wi' pins.?" whispered 
 Miah. 
 
 " Ees ; an' I bey closin' of the doo-ors ! ' cried 
 Mrs Mollard, trembling with excitement. "Us'll 
 zee whether I can't pay 'er out or no vor what 'er 
 'ath a-done toy me times an' over!" 
 
 She closed the door and bolted it. The baby 
 was sleeping, the children were at a neighbour's, 
 her husband at Fammelsea market. Trembling, 
 she watched the red heart roast before the fire. 
 
 Miah had taken a message to Cathie that she 
 was wanted at 'Postle Farm. The bullock, whose 
 death lay at her door, he had driven to its death 
 by a simple contrivance, all traces of which he 
 had now removed. 
 
 Cathie walked forward unsuspectingly. As she 
 reached the crown of the hill, she came face to 
 face with Miah. He appeared to be hurried. 
 
 "If 'ee plase, Cathie," he said, "wud 'ee kindly 
 come along to Stibb Varm. Mrs Mollard's a-took 
 bad, an' I'm a-rinnin' vor the doctor, eef 'ee'll 
 
320 
 
 POSTLE FARM. 
 
 
 kindl}' walk on, as the chirern be all to school an' 
 master not back from market." 
 
 A strong distaste for the task took possession 
 of Catherine. " I must go ; 'tis but human ! " was 
 her thought, and she turned aside to take the 
 path across the fields. But the farther she went 
 the more strong was her disinclination. 
 
 " She isn't ill at all ! " she suddenly exclaimed. 
 " 'Tis some trick. I'll turn straight back ! " 
 
 But .she had already come some way. The grey 
 mist had closed in over the hills, and the shades 
 of evening were fast settling into night. 
 
 She turned abruptly and began to mount the 
 hill. Presently she became aware of a figure be- 
 fore her. As she came near a voice said — 
 
 " Wull, why an't 'ee gone on ? " 
 
 "Why an't 'ee.?" she retorted. 
 
 " I met the doctor's gig, an' ee's comin' round 
 by the road." 
 
 "Then I need not go on since he is coming," 
 she answered. 
 
 "Ees, 'ee need," he answered, gripping her 
 strongly by the wrist. " I bid 'ee to — so go ! " 
 
 A sense of greater fear than she had ever known 
 settled upon Catherine. She wrenched her arm 
 from his grasp, and started backwards. Uncon- 
 sciously she glanced round for protection. 
 
 "Luk 'ee 'ere," said Miah, recapturing her, and 
 hissing the words close to her face ; " 'ee've got to 
 go to Stibb Varm, or I'll mak' 'ee. They'll a-vetch 
 
THE AWAKENING. 
 
 321 
 
 blood from 'ec vor a witch toy-vor that's what 
 
 ee bey— an' all country-zidc know'th it. Thccr bey 
 
 one way out o't. Swear to mar' mc, an' I'll a-tak' 
 
 ee back safe — vor you know, Cathie," — here he 
 
 changed his voice into wheedling tones.— "I was 
 
 always mazed over 'ee. I always thought a zight 
 
 on 'ee, my dear, you'm that 'andsome ! " 
 
 Cathie met his bloodshot eyes and did not 
 flinch. 
 
 "Miah Sluman," she said, "you can't frighten 
 me!" But though she spoke boldly, it was only 
 by intense effort she kept from trembling. " I'll 
 tell you this, though I wonder you don't know it 
 without my telling you,— I'd die before I'd so much 
 as stay one hour in the same spot with 'ec ! " 
 
 She tried to push past him. But he stood in 
 front of her. Then she realised her position was 
 desperate. 
 
 It was on this same afternoon that Montague stood 
 painting in his studio. Glancing out of the window 
 as he turned to fetch a colour from his box on the 
 window-sill, he saw Cathie standing on the ridge 
 of the hill beckoning to him. It seemed to him 
 at that moment as if this was what he had been 
 expecting all his life. 
 
 Hastily putting down his palette and brushes, 
 he turned from the room and mounted the hill to 
 join her. 
 
 On the summit of the ridge the mist surrounded 
 
 X 
 
322 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 I 
 
 1 
 
 him. It was a weird evening. Sudden gusts shook 
 the hedgerows, or seizing one leaf, made it swirl 
 ceaselessly, while all the rest were still. Shadows 
 seemed to be fleeing at rapid intervals across his 
 steps ; yet the sun had long set, and the moon had 
 not risen. 
 
 He quickened his steps: a sense of uneasiness 
 weighed upon him. Suddenly a hare dashed across 
 his path, and at the same instant night fell. It 
 seemed to drop on him like a pall, He had reached 
 the edge of the ridge now ; but she had disappeared. 
 What had she wanted } And why had she not 
 waited till he came? He felt anxious and un- 
 certain. However, there was nothing to be gained 
 by standing in the dark. He must act. At that 
 instant he heard his own name called twice, in 
 accents of despair. A cold perspiration burst 
 upon his forehead. There was an eerie feeling on 
 the desolate hill, and he resented his inability 
 to throw off the sense of danger that oppressed 
 him. 
 
 He sprang forward. He seemed to be fighting 
 an impenetrable wall of mist. Then suddenly, as 
 once before he had heard it, a woman's scream 
 rent the air. He felt his hair literally lift from 
 his brow. 
 
 " Where ? Where ? " he called ; and through the 
 thick air his voice came back to him in muffled 
 tones. He stopped to listen. There was a des- 
 
 f^^:h 
 
 i> •*;'!« 
 
 ill! 
 
THE AWAKENING. 
 
 323 
 
 shook 
 t swirl 
 ladovvs 
 3SS his 
 on had 
 
 easiness 
 across 
 ell. It 
 reached 
 peared. 
 ihe not 
 nd un- 
 gained 
 A.t that 
 vice, in 
 1 burst 
 ;ling on 
 nability 
 )pressed 
 
 perate stillness, broken only by his own laboured 
 breathing. 
 
 Then he plunged forward, and hurled himself into 
 space. His fingers gripped at something, then him- 
 self and another body rolled over and over down the 
 grassy slope. 
 
 fighting 
 
 enly, as 
 
 scream 
 
 ift from 
 
 >ugh the 
 
 muffled 
 
 5 a des- 
 
r 
 
 324 
 
 CHAPTER LXIII. 
 
 He held on with his iron grip all the while. When 
 the rolling ceased he was holding on still. 
 
 Then a woman's voice said, with gasping sobs— 
 
 " Oh, don't kill him ! Your fingers are on his 
 throat. For God's sake let go!" 
 
 Gradually his grip slackened. A choking, retch- 
 ing, writhing bundle lay on the grass. 
 
 " Vo!i damnable coward, what were you doing to 
 this woman } Who is the woman ? " 
 
 He turned : it was too dark to see now, but a 
 woman crept into his arms and lay there. He 
 knew who she was. She was trembling and sobbing. 
 
 " I will take this devil into custody when he gets 
 over his choking fit," he said, presently. 
 
 " Let him go ! Let him go ! " she sobbed. 
 
 ** I will not let him go," he answered. 
 
 "You must!" 
 
 Montague hesitated. But her will was strong, 
 hound I " he said. 
 
 " uet up, you 
 And slowly the 
 
 man 
 disappeared into the darknes 
 
 staggered to his feet, and 
 
THE AWAKENING. 
 
 325 
 
 " Let me keep him ! " cried Montague. 
 
 She shook her head. He could not see her face, 
 for it was pressed against him; but he felt the 
 movement. 
 
 He did not speak again, waiting till she should be 
 calm. Contact with him brought her strength ; she 
 drew back from him. 
 
 "Come with me," he said, "and rest at Tostle 
 Farm." 
 
 " No, no, no ! " she cried. 
 
 " But you cannot go home as you are. Tell me, 
 arc you hurt ? " 
 "No." 
 
 " In no way.?" 
 "No." 
 
 " Come back to the farm with me, and I will have 
 you driven home." 
 
 " No, no, no ! " 
 
 " What are you going to do, then > " 
 
 " Walk home. You come 'long with me." 
 
 " Tell me, who was it ? " 
 
 " No, I won't ! " 
 
 And Montague, tormented with doubts, drew 
 her hand through his arm, and marched stolidly 
 home with her. Twice he had heard her scream 
 in the darkness — once he had heard the frantic 
 straining of the oars, the second time he had his 
 fingers on a man's throat. What was the mean- 
 ing of this mystery? Naturally he connected the 
 circumstances. 
 
326 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 As he walked forward he felt something wet and 
 warm on her wrist. 
 
 " What is this ? " he cried. 
 
 " Blood ! " 
 
 " Blood ? " 
 
 He took the matches from his pocket and struck 
 one. The blood was dripping from her arm, and 
 above it her white scared face, with the wild eyes, 
 looked up into his own. 
 
 "Cathie, Cathie!" he cried, "you told me you 
 were not hurt I " 
 
 She began to whimper while he bound her arm 
 up. 
 
 " Don't you tell anybody," sh^ ^aid ; " that's what 
 I'm thinkin'." 
 
 "But I must tell. Mrs Eliot will have to 
 know." 
 
 She snatched away the hand he had just bound. 
 
 " Go, then," she said ; " you're no friend. You 
 may tell ; but mornin' light won't find me." 
 
 " Then tell me about it," he said, " and I will tell 
 no one." 
 
 " There's nothing to tell." 
 
 " As you will," he answered, wearily ; and they 
 tramped on. 
 
 This mystery of hers was torture to him. 
 
 " I wish you would tell me all about yourself," he 
 said at last. " It would be much better." 
 
 " Myself 's myself — and just my affair and no one 
 else's." 
 
 iU 
 
THE AWAKKNINC;. 
 
 IV 
 
 "No." he answered, in a voice that shook a little 
 I" sp.te of himself; "when you meet people and 
 bmd them to you, your affair becomes theirs also 
 Kemember you beckoned me to help you." 
 
 "I didn't!" she answered, indignantly. 
 
 "Kxcuse me, you stood on the ridge above 
 'I'ostle farm and beckoned me— or if you did not 
 it was your double." 
 
 She made no answer, and they concluded their 
 journey in silence. 
 
 At the school cottage she put out both her hands 
 to him. 
 
 "I ain't got no proper thanks. But though my 
 tongue can't thank 'ee, my heart does." 
 
 She opened the cottage door, and stood for a 
 moment with her beautiful figure silhouetted ajjainst 
 the light within. 
 
 Thus did she often appear to Montague's fancy 
 in the after days-with a glory round her, and an 
 awful darkness on herself. And it tortured the man 
 —yet he bore it in silence. 
 
328 
 
 CHAPTER LXIV. 
 
 
 ; I 
 
 In due course a suitable school was found for 
 Catherine, where she lived with girls of good breed- 
 ing, and attended lectures. 
 
 Mrs Eliot missed her sorely. But the girl went 
 doggedly to work ; and if sometimes the loneliness 
 of her position came home to her, she drove it from 
 her, and pressed the more closely to her work. 
 
 When the term closed Mrs Eliot expected Cath- 
 erine to return for the holidays. But she remained 
 in town. 
 
 "I'm not coming back," she wrote in her firm 
 clear hand, "till I can keep myself from talking 
 Devon when I'm startled. Here I hear none of 
 it, and that gives me a chance. Sometimes I want 
 to come back so, I can hardly keep myself. But 
 I can wait." 
 
 When the summer vacation came round the fol- 
 lowing year, Cathie came back to Upcott and stayed 
 with Mrs Eliot in the little cottage Madge had once 
 rented, overlooking the Teel. 
 
 Now, although Lady Gamble had promised to 
 
 M >. 
 
nd for 
 breed- 
 
 ■1 went 
 leliness 
 it from 
 
 1 Cath- 
 mained 
 
 er firm 
 talking 
 lone of 
 I want 
 f. But 
 
 the fol- 
 
 stayed 
 
 id once 
 
 ised to 
 
 THE AWAKENING. ^^g 
 
 fl «'f '"".' " ''^^'"^ '"^' '^ ^^- - «he could 
 talk "plarn English," as she expressed it, she by 
 
 h:rT„Th:;~'^'^^^^^-^^^^ 
 
 The position of affairs after Cathie returned was 
 self-evident. Lady Gamble herself saw them walk- 
 •ng together in the Upcott woods-and what more 
 do you want for proof? 
 
 th^^ !^'\"u '" ^""^ *° ■'^ "^P"'^-' •'"' the first 
 thing the following day she ordered her carriage 
 
 to"sef rT ''''=°"- ''"''''' *•"=-> '"^ -1-sted 
 to see Cathie privately. 
 
 Lady Gamble stood up as the girl entered, re- 
 garding her haughtily. 
 
 " What do you mean ? " she cried. " Unprincipled 
 gjrl, trying to engage the affection of my nephew 
 How dare you ! " J' f '^"^ • 
 
 " I dare do all that may become a woman. Who 
 
 beenMn 7" " T""" "''''"' ^"''-' -"^ ^ad 
 been called away from Shakespeare 
 
 "How dare you quote Milton to me, when I 
 am seriously in earnest - " cried Lady Gamble. « It 
 .s nothing in the world but bold-faced imperti- 
 nence ! ^ 
 
 "When you have finished misnaming quotations 
 may I go ? " inquired Cathie. 
 
 "You may do nothing of the sort. I have come 
 here to extract, or, if necessary, bribe you to a 
 promise that you will no longer seek to entangle 
 my poor nephew. ' 
 
330 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 *3 
 
 " I suppose," she said, " itV. the right of every 
 woman to try and make the man she loves return 
 her affection ? " 
 
 " Oh, the boldness ! " cried Lady Gamble. 
 
 " So," continued Catherine, " if I loved him, I 
 should see no harm whatever in trying to make him 
 love me. But, after all," turning with a smile to 
 Lady Gamble, " this is entirely beside the question, 
 because I don't love him, so why waste time over 
 abstruse questions .? " 
 
 Lady Gamble gasped. 
 
 " You lie ! " she cried, exasperated beyond herself. 
 
 " I don't care what your title or position," began 
 Cathie. " However, we're degenerating into vulgar 
 personalities. Your nephew is nothing to me, and 
 if I am something to hin^ I have nothing to gain 
 by it." 
 
 "You have all to gain by it !" said Lady Gamble, 
 quivering with passion, " You mean to marry him, 
 and you cannot deceive me !" 
 
 " Since your ladyship knows best," said Catherine, 
 " I will not contradict you." 
 
 " Ah ! You confess to it ? " 
 
 " Isn't the asking of questions a little superfluous ?" 
 
 " Oh, my dear girl ! " cried Lady Gamble, feeling 
 she had begun on the wrong tack, "do not let us 
 be absurd with each other. Let us come to an 
 understanding. Have you set your heart upon 
 him ? " 
 
 " Certainly not ! " said Cathie, indignantly. 
 
mmmmm 
 
 THE AWAKENING. 
 
 every 
 return 
 
 him, I 
 ike him 
 mile to 
 uestion, 
 ne over 
 
 herself. 
 ," began 
 ) vulgar 
 me, and 
 to gain 
 
 Gamble, 
 .rry him, 
 
 atherine, 
 
 •fluous?" 
 e, feeling 
 ot let us 
 le to an 
 art upon 
 
 ay. 
 
 331 
 My 
 
 'May I believe you? Oh, surely I mayi 
 poor Cyril! It would be too appallin-<" 
 ;; It would, indeed," said Cathie, demurely. 
 I believe we understand each other,-I believe 
 I can trust you." 
 
 "I believe you can." 
 
 "I believe it is only the poor misguided boy." 
 
 "I believe it is." ^ 
 
 *'My dear, can you forgive me.?" 
 
 "I believe I can." 
 
 "It would be so dreadful!" 
 
 "Oh, it would!" said Cathie, quite shocked. 
 
 In this neighbourhood, I mean." 
 "To be sure." 
 
 "I believe you are a good, honest, sweet girP" 
 ' Since I don't love Mr Wain -to be sure I 
 
 am. And precisely the reverse if I did '" 
 
 "My dear," cried Lady Gamble, delightedly "tell 
 
 me, now, who are your parents ? " 
 
 "Mr and Mrs Tythycott. Of origin unknown, 
 but doubtless honest." 
 
 Lady Gamble threw up her hands. 
 
 "Oh, you're delightful!" she cried. "Only 
 promise you'll never speak of this to a soul " 
 
 "Never!" answered Catherine. 
 
 Lady Gamble came in late for luncheon. Cyril 
 was waiting for her in the library, and wonderL 
 how soon after lunch he might venture to call at 
 tne schoolhouse. 
 
332 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 
 1 i 'f ' 
 
 " My dear," she cried, gleefully, drawing off her 
 gloves, " I have proposed for you, and you've 
 been refused." 
 
 "Been refused! Where? How do you mean?" 
 cried Cyril, turning into pink and white patches. 
 
 " Why, to that girl — you know ! And she won't 
 have you — won't have you. Won't have you — not 
 at any price ! " 
 
 "But he • did you know? I mean, what busi- 
 ness I beg your pardon ; but surely it was 
 
 my place to propose?" 
 
 " My dear, it's anybody's place who can get in 
 first. Besides, never mind whose place it was — 
 you're saved." 
 
 "She did not like the idea?" said Cyril, trying 
 to control his voice. 
 
 " Like it ! She positively ridiculed it," replied 
 his aunt, determining not to notice his agitation. 
 " Oh, how thankful I was ! I could have kissed 
 her. What a poor foolish boy you were ! By 
 the way, I hope I was right. I hope she spoke 
 the truth, and really doesn't care for you," she 
 finished, her face falling. 
 
 "There's not a doubt of that," said Cyril, lean- 
 ing his elbow on the mantelpiece and his head 
 in his hand, and looking like a very bad sailor 
 crossing a very rough sea. 
 
 " Ah, that's right ! Now come in to lunch. It's 
 all waiting." 
 
THE AWAKENING. 
 
 335 
 
 ^ " I don't care for any lunch," said Cyril. '< I've— 
 I've an engagement." 
 
 "Have you ^ Well, I'm ravenous." 
 
 As she rose from a hearty meal she said to 
 herself — 
 
 "Poor boy! I daresay he feels it, though I 
 was really so delighted myself that his view of 
 the case never struck me. Well, well, we all get 
 our fingers burnt more or less. Who's to say I 
 didn't in my young days?" 
 
334 
 
 CHAPTER LXV. 
 
 The master's bell rang violently. Pringwood an- 
 swered it in haste. 
 
 " Turn her out ! " Lord Frobisher cried, as soon 
 as the old man appeared. 
 
 The old man looked round the room, in which 
 evening had now cast dismal shadows. 
 
 " Turn her out ! " repeated his master. " She 
 stands beside you. God in heaven, man, don't 
 you see her ? " 
 
 The old servant blinked, and into his heart 
 sorrow entered. 
 
 Forty years had he ser.'.p.d Lord Frobisher, and 
 never once, severe as tne strain had often been, 
 had he known his powerful mind to wander. 
 
 " Ees, sir ! " he said ; and he made a pretence 
 of carrying out the order. 
 
 Lord Frobisher lay back on his pillows and 
 began muttering to himself — 
 
 "I always knew she'd come. I always felt it. 
 
THE AWAKENING. 335 
 
 All my life long I've had this before me. ^Now 
 my peace of mind has gone for ever. She has 
 come, she has come!" 
 
 Repeating the last words over to himself again 
 and again in accents of despair, he fell asleep. 
 
 I'i. 
 
336 
 
 CHAPTER LXVI. 
 
 Temple's wedding-day was drawing near. Lord 
 Frobisher had been failing much of late, and Mrs 
 Clavers decided that the marriage might now 
 take place without any indiscretion. 
 
 The burden of the thought to Temple was 
 almost intolerable. Still he faced it ; but the 
 cruellest part of it all to him was, that he had 
 made her to suffer. Yes, he was man enough to 
 know he had treated her cruelly, and to suffer 
 the pangs of bitter remorse in consequence. 
 
 "What are you thinking of?" Elsie said one 
 day when they were together, "Oh, such serious 
 thoughts!" 
 
 "Oh, nothing!" he said, trying to speak lightly. 
 
 "But they must have been about something, 
 dear," said Elsie, with the air of a person who 
 has made a shrewd observation. 
 
 "Well, nothing that would interest you at any 
 rate," said Temple, smiling with an effort. 
 
 "But everything that interests you interests 
 me," she answered with tender affection. 
 
THE AWAKENING. 
 
 337 
 
 He got up abruptly. 
 
 "This wouldn't any way," he said with cheerful 
 decision. "Take my word for it. Shall we stroll 
 out? It's so close indoors." 
 
 She linked her arm through his. 
 "I don't want to know anything you would 
 rather not tell me, dear," she said, gently. " Always 
 remember that. You are free— absolutely free- 
 always. A woman when she loves, you know, 
 is just a well— ever so deep— you can't get to the 
 bottom of it. And she holds all the man she 
 loves gives her to hold, and doesn't grumble a 
 bit even if it only comes half way up." 
 Temple cleared his throat. 
 
 "And a man isn't a bit like that," he" answered, 
 still attempting to speak lightly; "he is like a 
 cataract. He wants to tear up everything before 
 
 him, and sometimes he tears up the wr " He 
 
 stopped abruptly. "The woman has hard work 
 to keep pace with him," he finished, putting his 
 arm round her; "and very often when she does 
 there's no satisfaction in it." 
 
 "No satisfaction for the man do you mean?" 
 " No, no ; of course not— for the woman." 
 " If you think that, you can't understand love a 
 bit." 
 
 "I understand it only too well,' he answered, 
 abruptly. "It is the most maddening, sweetly 
 intoxicating, impossible thing in the world!" 
 
 She looked at him with wide open eyes. 
 
 Y 
 
338 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 
 " How different men and women are ! " she said. 
 "Isn't it funny they should get on together?" 
 
 " Oh, some women are very like men," he said. 
 "That is the perfection of a union — where they 
 are alike enough to understand each other, and 
 yet so different that they are a p'^rpetual tonic 
 to each other." 
 
 Elsie gave a little sigh. 
 
 " Don't let us be metaphysical," she said. " Don't 
 let us analyse love." 
 
 " No ; you are quite right — we won't." 
 
 " How about that girl Cathie ? " asked Elsie, after 
 a pause. 
 
 " Oh, Cathie," said Temple, as if he had suddenly 
 remembered her. " I'm sure I don't know." Then, 
 not quite liking to tell a lie to the woman who 
 was to be his wife — for Temple had not yet quite 
 reached the number who think wives are the very 
 women one has to lie to — he checked himself "At 
 least, yes, by the way. I saw her once after I 
 came back." 
 
 All his nerves tingled at the recollection. The 
 very sound of her name turned him giddy. 
 
 " Is she still anxious to learn ^ " 
 
 Elsie had to repeat the question before he heard. 
 
 " I believe so. I only saw her accidentally." 
 
 "You know I never believed in her; her learning 
 was merely a ruse. Isn't she grateful for all you 
 did for her?" 
 
 "I don't know," said Temple, The unconscious 
 
THE AWAKENING. 
 
 339 
 
 irony of the question affected him strongly. His 
 voice shook. He turned aside on the pretence of 
 lighting his pipe. 
 
 "Are you laughing about it.?" asked Elsie, trying 
 to see his face. "I have often. She was such a 
 barefaced fraud." 
 
 "Laughing! God, no!" cried Temple, flinging 
 the pipe from him in a moment of unconquerable 
 passion : then facing her — " Never mention her 
 name to me again! It was a mistake— a bitter 
 one — from first to last!" 
 
 " What, she turned out badly ? Well, you remem- 
 ber, dear, my impression of her ? " 
 
 " Perfectly." 
 
 " And I was right ? " 
 
 " I tell you I know nothing whatever of her, nor 
 do I wish to. She has gone from the farm— that 
 is all I can tell you." 
 
 Many and many a time had he climbed the slope 
 in vain. 
 
 " Well, I'm glad she's gone, any way," said Elsie ; 
 " I do hate impostors." 
 

 340 
 
 m 
 
 
 CHAPTER LXVII. 
 
 Early in the following spring Temple was sum- 
 moned to Upcott suddenly. Lord Frobisher had 
 been gradually declining in strength, and the end 
 was thought to be not far off. 
 
 "I shall never live in this cursed place," said 
 Temple, as he wandered aimlessly about the 
 grounds, fying to keep his eyes from straying 
 across to tne old farmhouse. 
 
 Within, the dying master raised himself on his 
 elbow and called to his servant. 
 
 " Pringwood," he said, hoarsely, " she's here again. 
 What shall I do ? What shall I do ? " 
 
 "Bear it, my lord," said the old servant — "bear 
 it like a man. She can't harm you." 
 
 " But I harmed her ! I harmed her ! " he groaned, 
 falling back upon his pillow. * I need not have : 
 that is what always hits so hard — i need not have. 
 And yet I had the greater right to the greater part. 
 What was she but an interloper? What was he 
 but that? What right had he to marry, with one 
 foot in the grave?" 
 
 
THE AWAKENING. 
 
 w 
 
 He R^lared angrily at the old butler as he askid 
 the question. 
 
 " None, sir— none ! " the old man answered. 
 •• It seemed such a simple thing to do," continued 
 the quavering voice. " It was put in my way ! It 
 was an unfair temptation ! She was ill in bed ; it 
 was so simple to send the infected letter ; how was 
 I to know for certain she'd catch it? She died; 
 she might have died any way. But it was the will 
 that killed me. Curse them for that will! Half 
 his fortune. Damn his liberality! And now the 
 whole county will know. My name will stink. Can 
 I get out of it, Pringwood ? No ? What a liar and 
 a betrayer you have been to me ! liut you think— 
 you think— well, if there is a God, you think, do 
 you, He'll accept this restitution ? I shall be acknow- 
 ledging my sin, shan't I ? confess your sins, doesn't 
 it say somewhere? God, this horrible darkness! 
 And in the flashes of light s/ie comes ! Curse the 
 Scotch blood that ran in my grandmother's veins ! 
 what a hell's life it's given me!" 
 
 Cathie, before she could go back to London, 
 found it would be necessary to call at Lord 
 Frobisher's for a little more ready money. She 
 had been often— and she had never been in vain. 
 
 She waited until Mrs Eliot had gone out to 
 her choir practice; then she went upstairs, and 
 opened the oak chest she had brought with her 
 from 'Postle Farm. She took from .t the old 
 
U ' 
 
 
 r't - 
 
 '! I 
 
 V 
 
 n 
 
 i 
 
 342 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 brown torn frock she had worn at her work on 
 the farm in the days when Temple had first 
 known her. She pinned it carefully where the 
 buttons had come off, and throwing an old shawl 
 over her head — the same she had thrown off the 
 night she startled Miss Scottie with her beauty — 
 she stole softly down the garden path. 
 
 The night was dark, and at the cross roads 
 she hesitated. 
 
 "It's like as if I were afraid," she murmured. 
 "What is there to be afraid of? It's the conven- 
 tional London life and the crowds have made me 
 afraid of my own shadow." 
 
 She walked on for some distance rapidly. As 
 she passed the public - house the light from the 
 window fell on her face, and a man sitting within 
 saw it. Drinking his whisky at a draught, he 
 threw down his coppers in payment and liurried out. 
 
 " Theer 'er goes now," said Miah ; " 'er as can 
 dress like the betterment volk, a-clotheyed in rags 
 an' tatters ! 'Er be crazed ! Wull, I knowed it 
 all along. I'll 'ave my eye on 'er, zee if I don't. 
 If I could catch 'er out in's dark an' skeer 'er, or 
 catch 'er keepin' company an' tell on 'er an' mak' 
 'er tell me wheer 'er gets 'er money from ! My, 
 if I only could ! But 'er be that slipperified." 
 
 Once Cathie thought she heard a step behind 
 her, and she paused ; but all was silent. 
 
 " I am positively trembling," she cried to her- 
 self. "This is no ordinary nerves. There is 
 
THE AWAKENING. 
 
 343 
 
 igs 
 
 it 
 I't. 
 
 or 
 lak' 
 
 ^y. 
 
 ind 
 
 ler- 
 is 
 
 something behind. What am I to do ? I can't 
 take anybody with nic, because no one must 
 know. There's one man would never tell." She 
 hesitated. " But I can't go to he. I'll go another 
 night ; perhaps I won't feel like this then." 
 
 So she turned back by the field way, and Miah 
 missed her. It was not destined that this ruffian 
 should ever harm her. 
 
 The next night Catherine started on the same 
 errand. Two miles quick walking brought her 
 to her destination. She rang the bell three times. 
 These were Pringwood's instructions to her. She 
 was to ring the bell three times, and then hide 
 in the bushes until he came out to her. Some- 
 times Catherine revolted against this — but the 
 money was useful. How could she learn with- 
 out it? 
 
 Catherine rang, and then she waited. So long 
 was the old man - servant in coming, she was on 
 the point of ringing again when the door opened 
 and the lamp -light streamed out and glistened on 
 the laurels. 
 
 Then the old man came out with his shuffling 
 step, and Catherine came forward to meet him. 
 
 " Lord Frobishcr's dead," he said, brokenly. 
 
 " Ah ! you are sorry," said Catherine in quick 
 sympathy. "You loved him." 
 
 •' I loved un," the old man said in a voice that 
 trembled. " I be sorry ; there ain't no money 
 this time. But keep heart in 'ee, missy." 
 
 m 
 
 
344 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 " Yes," said Cathie ; " I will." Though the dis- 
 appointment was a sore one, she spoke with her 
 usual courage. " And you keep cheerful, too." 
 
 She held out her hand to him. 
 
 "You've always been kind to me since the day 
 you came to market with Grandfer and bought 
 me chocolates." 
 
 The old man sobbed. He grasped her hand 
 again and again, and raised it to his lips as he 
 murmured brokenly — 
 
 "God bless 'ee, God bless *ee! An' tak' 'eart, 
 missy, tak' 'eart ! An', missy, remember I did 
 things always the bes' way I could. I loved 'is 
 lordship, I loved un ! " 
 
 And Catherine turned and walked back the 
 way she had come, but her tears were falling. 
 There was nothing left now but poor Grandfer's 
 hard-earned savings. 
 
 So absorbed was she in settling her plans for 
 the future, that she re-entered the house without 
 taking any precautions to avoid discovery. 
 
 Instantly Mrs Eliot heard her unguarded foot- 
 step and called from within — 
 
 "Some one wishes to speak to you, dear." 
 
 And Catherine, with a strange tremor at her 
 heart, pushed open the door and stood face to 
 face — in her ragged gown and her faded shawl — 
 with Temple. 
 
 " Cathie ! " he cried, springing towards her, while 
 Mrs Eliot started to her feet with a movement 
 
 •ft 
 
the dis- 
 Mth her 
 
 oo. 
 
 the day- 
 bought 
 
 I 
 
 THE AWAKENING ,^. 
 
 345 
 
 of uncontrollable surprise. A 'range drama was 
 unrolling before her. "Cathie." he said again 
 speaking with strong agitation, but still control- 
 ling himself, "I am disinherited I The money and 
 the land are yours!" 
 
 r hand 
 5 as he 
 
 k' 'eart, 
 
 I did 
 
 )ved 'is 
 
 Lck the 
 
 falh'ng. 
 
 andfer's 
 
 ans for 
 without 
 
 d foot- 
 
 M 
 
 r. 
 
 at her 
 face to 
 hawl — 
 
 
 *, while 
 vement 
 
i 
 
 346 
 
 
 uu- 
 
 Mi-'' 
 
 CHAPTER LXVIII. 
 
 " I don't understand," said Elsie, slowly. 
 
 " It is plain enough," said Mrs Clavers. " H'^ is 
 disinherited." 
 
 " Yes," repeated Temple, dully ; " I am disin- 
 herited." 
 
 ••But why?" 
 
 "He has left his money to the rightful heiress." 
 
 " He has left his money to a peasant-girl, you say?" 
 
 •• No, he has left it to his niece — his brother's only 
 child — Catherine Frobisher ! " 
 
 " You have been deceiving us all this while ! " 
 cried Mrs Clavers. "You must have known you 
 could never inherit the property ! " 
 
 " If it is your direct intention to fnsult me," said 
 Temple, " the conversation can end." 
 
 Elsie threw herself upon his breast. 
 
 "Oh, do not listen to her! " she cried. "Do not 
 quarrel 1 Money does not matter ! " 
 
 " Let us understand it thoroughly," said Mrs 
 Clavers. " Who is this girl ? Where has she been 
 all the time?" 
 
 
THE AWAKENING. 
 
 347 
 
 I was a case of foul play, and the old „,a„ 
 
 Ia.t day of h,s hfe. He wished it to be known 
 h.s brother's wife died through his design. H 
 sent her an infected letter, and she took scarle 
 
 h.s old man-servant to take to a convent, from 
 
 por ed. The old servant, however, suspicious of 
 foul play, or probably a repentant accomplice-only 
 of course. Lord Frobisher would not inculpate him 
 and he has got off scot-free-any way he dfdn't tak"' 
 her to France-he took her to one of Lord Frobisher 
 tenants a cousin of his own, persuading him to give 
 .t out that the child was his granddaughter. He 
 had a daughter who n.arried a sailor, and they 
 hatched up a story between them that the child 
 
 farm. No one suspected her birth-but the two old 
 men could not rest about it. ,t seemed terrible o 
 them, I suppose, to doom the child to a rough life 
 when the b ood of the Frobishers ran in her veins' 
 Anyhow, they wrote to Lord Frobisher-or rathe; 
 the old man at the farm did-a„d threatened to 
 disclose everything unless Lord Frobisher provided 
 he g.r w.th money during his lifetin,e, and with 
 h.s fortune when he died. And they left a state 
 ment o her birth in the hands of the family lawyer 
 -but Lord Frobisher himself confessed it-so fhe 
 g.rl has n,herited all, and I-am penniless, except 
 
348 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 
 I 
 
 ft 
 1 ' 
 
 ; 
 
 w 
 
 for two hundred a -year, besides my own small 
 fortune." 
 
 " Then did the girl know too ? " 
 
 " The girl knew nothing." 
 
 " But how can this be proved ? " 
 
 "There is no one to dispute it." 
 
 " What ! You have not the courage ! " 
 
 " I have no doubt ! The girl has in her posses- 
 sion one of the Frobisher heirlooms. It seems it 
 was tied round her neck as a child, and she lost it, 
 but she has found it since on the banks of the river 
 Teel." 
 
 For a moment Mrs Clavers was silent. 
 
 "You will understand, Elsie, I cannot let you 
 marry a penniless adventurer ! " she said at last ; 
 and with these words she left the room. She was 
 bitterly humiliated at the turn things had taken. 
 
 Temple stood on the hearthrug looking straight 
 before him and frowning. He was thrusting the 
 thought of Catherine away from him. 
 
 Elsie stood timidly regarding him. Her bosom 
 rose and fell rapidly ; her lips were parted. She 
 wanted him so to turn to her, crying, "What is 
 poverty to love ? Only stand by me ! " 
 
 But he did not say it. He stood pale, with his 
 lips compressed. All his energy was concentrated 
 on the one supreme effort of keeping Catherine 
 from his thoughts. To think of her would mean 
 a madness — a fury ; and the time was not yet. 
 
 Elsie tried to read his face. Was it possible he 
 
THE AWAKENING. 
 
 349 
 
 was hurt because she did not speak, believing her 
 - silence was because she agreed with all her mother 
 had said, and not because the beating of her heart 
 was so passionate she dared not break the silence 
 lest she should say more than was fitting ? 
 
 Yes! he was hurt because she did not offer 
 herself, though surely-surely he must know The 
 next moment she had sprung to his side, and was 
 sobbing on his breast. 
 
 "Oh, don't doubt me, darling! You know no 
 future IS possible to me without you!" 
 Mechanically he put his arms round her. 
 '' Have you thought what poverty means ? " 
 " I can bear it,— I can bear anything ! " 
 "But your mother!— she will never consent." 
 •' I do not care ! I will not give you up ! " 
 " I cannot ask you to do so much for me." 
 
 "Oh, dearest! you know love counts all as 
 nothing!" 
 
 He could urge nothing further. 
 
 " It is very brave of you," he said, lamely. 
 "Would you not do the same for me?" she 
 whispered. 
 
 "I would do anything for the girl I loved! "he 
 cried ^vith sudden passion. "What would I not 
 do?" 
 
 He had turned from her abruptly, and was pacing 
 the room. 
 
 "Oh, what have I done to deserve such love!" 
 she sobbed. 
 
350 
 
 'POSTIR FARM. 
 
 ■J ^ 
 
 He started. For the moment he had forgotten 
 Elsie. 
 
 " Elsie, I cannot take you into grinding poverty ! " 
 he exclaimed. " Even if I " He stopped short. 
 
 " Even if you didn't love me. Ah, but you do ; 
 and you couldn't be so cruel to me — or to yourself. 
 I will make you such a good wife, — I will be so 
 careful. I shall not care where I live, dear, or 
 how hard I work, as long as I have you ! You 
 were hurt — ^just at first — because I did not speak. 
 But oh ! it wasn't want of love, dear, that kept me 
 silent." 
 
 She finished brokenly. 
 
 He was fain to take her hands and press them 
 between his own. 
 
 "We belong to each other, dear, ever since that 
 day long ago when you came across the lawn to 
 meet me. You are so noble and so good, you 
 want to spare me all poverty and pain. But oh ! 
 these are nothing to me, so long as I have 
 you ! " 
 
 He bowed his head in silence, and took the 
 blow that love had dealt him. 
 
 He must be good and true to her. Cathie had 
 bidden him. He must follow in her footsteps, 
 which were led by a heart so much nobler than 
 his own. 
 
351 
 
 CHAPTER LXIX. 
 
 Catitfrtne Frobtsher entered the home that 
 had come to her by right of descent. 
 
 In the first mad excitement of the neighbour- 
 hood, when stories even less desirable than the 
 truth were being bandied from mouth to mouth, 
 and even well-bred society forgot itself, Catherine 
 had deemed it advisable to move quietly away 
 until the first furore over her history had somewhat 
 subsided. 
 
 She went to London and spent a year in hard 
 work, giving the finishing touches to an education 
 the foundation of which had already been firmly 
 laid. 
 
 Then she came back to the walls that had shel- 
 tered her ancestors for many a generation, and to 
 ; the portraits, of whom the originals had helped 
 each one to build her to the perfection of woman- 
 hood. The last of her name, she seemed to have 
 gathered all that was most worthy of perpetuation 
 in her progenitors, and she stood the incarnation 
 of all that a noble race should be. 
 
352 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 From this old admiral she gained her courage 
 and unflinching purpose, and from this gentle-eyed 
 lady the womanly heart of pity ; from another her 
 love of truth; from a fourth her inward vision — 
 step after step, line upon line. Of what service is 
 long ancestry, if it has not perpetuated truth and 
 virtue? 
 
 The people of the neighbourhood streamed in 
 to call — for, even in this nineteenth century, what 
 wins the heart like romance? 
 
 And Lady Gamble said — 
 
 "My dr-'r, I was very foolish to speak to you 
 as I did about Cyril. It was very queer of me, 
 too ; for I always declared you had good blood 
 in your veins — only, unfortunately, our good blood 
 doesn't always run in legitimate channels." 
 
 One morning Catherine came down to break- 
 fast, to find among her letters a handwriting that 
 she knew. She turned a little pale, and laid it 
 aside to read later. 
 
 Her companion — an elderly, inoffensive person — 
 sat at the head of the table serving coffee from a 
 silver urn. 
 
 Catherine pushed her letter a little farther away 
 with a determined action, as if she were brushing 
 the memory of the writer from her mind. She 
 set herself to contemplate the schemes for the im- 
 provement of her cottages and land that had been 
 laid before her on the previous day. 
 
THE AWAKEN I NH. 
 
 353 
 
 But after all, such things to a young and beauti- 
 ful woman, however enthusiastic she may be, are 
 but as the dry dust compared to the full tide of 
 nature's design. For nature's design, from the be- 
 ginning of all things, was something more than this, 
 and the normal woman knows it. 
 
 Yet the other thought that pressed itself upon 
 her, Catherine would not have. To keep her 
 thoughts from wandering back to it, she began ex- 
 pressing them aloud. The poor lady at the end 
 of the table cleared her throat nervously, and 
 nodded and murmured, trying at least to appear 
 as though she kept pace with the active brain of 
 her companion. 
 
 " I am glad," Catherine said, in that beautiful 
 voice of hers that had caught the heart of Temple 
 when it rolled out its wild Devonshire to him — *' I 
 am glad I lived with the people for seventeen years 
 of my life. Now I shall understand them as I never 
 could have without it. After all, they are the true 
 philosophers. The nothingness of life, its brevity, 
 its merely prefatory character, is understood by 
 them in a way our class nevci can understand. 
 * Unto the poor,' — some religious people patter out 
 sentences that seem to point to understanding, but 
 they don't understand, really. They only repeat 
 like parrots. Unto the poor only is the full 
 meaning of the gospel realised, and the gospel is 
 —Philosophy." 
 
 There was silence. The bright February sun- 
 
 2 
 
354 
 
 'rOSTLE FARM. 
 
 :t 
 
 i- 
 
 f 
 
 k 
 
 shine flashed on the white cloth and massive silver ; 
 a canary burst into sudden song; tiiesunli^dit dulKd 
 the fire, and the embers fell together with a hollow 
 sound. 
 
 Catherine looked slowly round upon it all. The 
 portraits on the wall, the handsome bronze orna- 
 ments, the rich carpet, the heavy curtains, the 
 luxurious chairs, — all hers. 
 
 Then her eye wandered through the window, on 
 to the old grey farm standing half-way up the 
 grassy hillside. That was hers too. Once it had 
 been hers in quite a different way — part of her 
 life ; the breath she drew. 
 
 On its scanty uplands her heart had learnt to 
 love. And she wished it might come back to her 
 — the beauty of those summer days. 
 
 Then Catherine broke the seal of her letter and 
 read it. It ran : — 
 
 " Ever since we parted I have been in South 
 Africa. Elsie would not marry me until she had her 
 mother's consent, and I daresay you know already 
 Mrs Clavers is now dead. I wrote home asking 
 Elsie to join me here, but her answer was she 
 could not leave her father now that he was alone, 
 and she set me free. Surely even your sense of 
 honour will not affirm that I am not? I have 
 tried to persuade Elsie, and have offered her father 
 a home out here, but he says he is too old now 
 to travel so far. Surely there is no man living 
 who, under these circumstances, would hold him- 
 
 Mm. 
 
 ^ m 
 
THE AWAKKNING. 
 
 355 
 
 self bound still! If you do not want mc to 
 call and see you, write mc by return. Ikit, 
 Cathie, it is not possible you have forgotten our 
 i-ast!" 
 
 There had been no Sunday delivery, and it was 
 now too late to write, even had she wished to. 
 
 She sat, trying to realise it all ; but it seemed 
 like some far-off dream.—something, perhaps, that 
 had happened to her in another world. She felt 
 as if nothing could ever awaken her feelings and 
 emotions again ; and very restlessly she passed the 
 tlay, starting at every sound. 
 
 
 They stood together in the great silent library, 
 where but lately the dead man had stood trying 
 to simulate the strength and gladness of his youth. 
 
 She was very pale. Dark rings were under her 
 eyes 3he had thought the supreme moment of 
 her life v/ould be so different to this. 
 
 "Wh.. is all this to me — the riches, the posi- 
 tion?' one said at last, speaking in a low, agitated 
 whisper. "What are they to me? Nothing, and 
 worse than nothing — weights about my neck! 
 Oh!" she cried, passionately, "wouldn't I rather 
 , be on the grassy hillside now, with you free to 
 love me honourably." She sank into a chair. She 
 had never felt such utter despair. «' When you were 
 free," she finished, in a dull, passionless voice, "you 
 could not love me honourably." 
 "Cathie!" he cried, "I have so often wanted to 
 
T 
 
 
 '\ t 
 
 I;' 
 
 1 
 
 ill 
 
 3S6 
 
 'POSTLE FARM. 
 
 loved you so 
 
 explain all that time to you. 
 much " 
 
 " So little, you mean," she said, looking at him 
 with eyes that glowed in her white face. "Could 
 you have loved me so much — so very much, and 
 have banished me from your side, while you en- 
 joyed all this splendour?" 
 
 She stamped her foot on the carpet, thinking 
 of the bare floors at 'Postle Farm. It echoed 
 dully. 
 
 "Could a woman do so.? Never! When a 
 woman loves, any sacrifice is not too great. She 
 scorns the world. That is never love which is not 
 the strongest emotion of the heart, saving the fear 
 of God. Have you thought," she cried, speaking 
 in a low, impassioned voice, " what you would have 
 brought on me? Have you considered what my 
 position to-day would have been ? A Frobisher — 
 this estate mine — myself scouted by the county, 
 and even the country - folk I lived and worked 
 amongst pointing at me the finger of shame and 
 scorn ! Have you thought ? Oh ! have you 
 thought ? " 
 
 Her hands were clasped, her dark eyes were 
 glowing into his, and her beautiful face was pale 
 as death. 
 
 " And you say you loved me ! Ah ! that was 
 never, never love ! " 
 
 She rose from her chair. A long, shuddering 
 
THE AWAKENING. 
 
 357 
 
 I 
 
 sigh burst from her. She pressed her hand to 
 her heart. 
 
 Trembling from head to foot, she continued in 
 quick, agitated, broken tones — 
 
 " I have thought of it all day. It haunts me— I 
 can't get away from it. The abyss at my feet— 
 the awful chasm! I hear the gravel and the 
 earth and the shells patter down, down ! These 
 are my hopes, my ambitions, my future possi- 
 bilities, my honour, my love!" 
 
 He was white to the lips. He staggered from 
 his chair. 
 
 "You no longer love me, then?" he said, in a 
 hollow voice. 
 
 She looked upwards ac him — a long, yearning 
 look that stabbed him. 
 
 " If our positions were altered " he began. 
 
 "My position as a woman and yours as a 
 man have never altered," she answered. "I am 
 no more a woman to-day than I was as I ran 
 along the hillside to meet you in my coarse 
 clothes and the stains of honest labour on my 
 hands. Our positions have not altered ; but the 
 vulgarity of our minds is so great— yours and mine 
 —that we have never grasped the significance of 
 those positions till they were painted for us in 
 these broad lines of light and shade. Is that not 
 so.?" 
 
 She looked at him for a long moment. He 
 
35S 
 
 POSTLE FARM. 
 
 t-ia 
 
 n^. 
 
 had no answer to give. She turned again wearily 
 and dropped her face upon her arm. 
 
 "Can't you forgive me, Cathie?" he said, in a 
 voice of slrong emotion. 
 
 He placed his hand over hers that lay listlessly 
 on the polished table. 
 
 " I am not blaming you," she said, very gently. 
 " I am only looking back and facing it all. Could 
 you have loved me then, how different our positions 
 to-day ! And if I had been like some poor girls, 
 how awful — oh, how awful ! — my condition to-day ! 
 That is all. It only comes to us once in a life- 
 time, perhaps, to see things as they are in all 
 their luridness — in all their horrid possibilities. 
 Forgive me for paining you ! " 
 
 She put out a hand half timid, half imploring. 
 
 "You once said that — there was no forgiveness 
 in love." 
 
 "In love — no— I spoke the truth." 
 
 "But you cannot forgive me now.^" 
 
 She was silent a moment, then — 
 
 " I have forgiven you — and— forgotten ! " 
 
 There was absolute stillness. Only the wild 
 beating of two hearts — the one that took the 
 pain, the one that gave it. 
 
 "Is there no particle of hope for me?" he 
 cried at last ; and he caught her wrists and 
 tried to force her hands from her face. 
 
 With all the effort of her strong will she raised 
 her head, and her despairing eyes looked into 
 
, 
 
 THE AWAKENING. 
 
 359 
 
 his. And he read his answer in them, for they 
 were the tomb of love. 
 
 * 
 
 A minute later the heavy hall -door swung to 
 behind him, closing the one and only chapter in 
 his life that was written at once with ihe dust 
 of hell and with the fire of heaven. 
 
 THE END.