gently to and fro murmuring, not unmusically, some crooning lullaby of the country side.

“The babe?” whispered Mr. Black, and Mrs. Schofield nodded silently, and then, sinking her voice, “Moll’s got another maggot i’ her head. She thinks th’ poor lass ’ats dead an’ gone wer’ seeking Tom o’ Fairbanks. Yo’ know how daft she is when ’oo sets that way.”

“Aye, give a dog a bad name and hang him. An old saying and true. We all know Fairbanks was a sad fellow in his young days, but bar a quip and maybe a stolen kiss from ready and tempting lips, he’s steady enough now”.

“Aye, aye, worn honest, as they say,” acquiesced the hostess. “But here he comes. Aw med sure he’d be anxious to know the end o’ last neet’s doin’s—an’ wheer Fairbanks is Aleck’s nooan far off, nor Pinder far off Aleck.”

Nor was Mrs. Schofield wrong in her surmise, Mr Redfearn came almost on tip-toe through the passage into the kitchen. The presence of death needs neither the whispered word nor the silent signal. Its hush is upon the house of mourning as the Sabbath stillness rests upon the fields. Even the phlegmatic Aleck had composed his rugged features to a more impressive rigidity than was their use, and the very dog stole to the hearth with downcast head and humid eyes.

“It came to th’ worst then?” asked Mr. Redfearn, after a solemn silence. He needed no reply. “Well, well, we all mun go someday; but she wer’ o’er young an’ o’er bonnie to be so cruel o’erta’en.”

“Aye it’s weel to hear you talk, Fairbanks,” broke in the irrepressible Molly, as she strained the child closer to her shrunken breast. “But there’s someb’dy ’ll ha’ to answer for this neet’s wark an’ who it is mebbe yersen can tell.”

Redfearn checked a hasty retort. There were, perhaps, reasons why he must bear the lash of Molly’s tongue. “Is she i’ th’ chamber?” he asked.

“Yo’d like to see her,” said Mrs Schofield.

Softly, the farmer and the schoolmaster followed their guide up the narrow creaking steps that led from the passage to the best bedroom, the room of state of the Hanging Gate. Upon a large four-poster lay the lifeless form fairer and more beautiful than in life. Mrs. Schofield drew the curtain of the window and the morning light streamed upon the couch and cast a halo on the pure child-like face. The long silken hair, deftly tended, had been drawn across each shoulder and in rippling streams fell about 

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