he stillness of the church. Presently a small boy emerged from behind
the organ.

'Good evenin', Miss Rosa', he called, trotting briskly away down the
aisle.

'Good night, Robert', she answered, absently.

After a while, with an impatient gesture, as if to shake some
importunate thought from her mind, she rose abruptly, pinned on her hat,
threw her cloak round her shoulders, blew out the candles, and groped
her way through the church, towards the half-open door. As she hurried
along the narrow pathway that led across the churchyard, of a sudden, a
figure started out of the blackness.

'Who's that?' she cried, in a loud, frightened voice.

A man's uneasy laugh answered her.

'It's only me, Rosa. I didna' think t' scare ye. I've bin waitin' for
ye, this hoor past.'

She made no reply, but quickened her pace. He strode on beside her.

'I'm off, Monday, ye know,' he continued. And, as she said nothing,
'Will ye na stop jest a minnit? I'd like t' speak a few words wi' ye
before I go, an tomorrow I hev t' git over t' Scarsdale betimes,' he
persisted.

'I don't want t' speak wi' ye: I don't want ever to see ye agin. I jest
hate the sight o' ye.' She spoke with a vehement, concentrated
hoarseness.

'Nay, but ye must listen to me. I will na be put off wi' fratchin
speeches.'

And gripping her arm, he forced her to stop.

'Loose me, ye great beast,' she broke out.

'I'll na hould ye, if ye'll jest stand quiet-like. I meant t' speak fair
t' ye, Rosa.'

They stood at a bend in the road, face to face quite close together.
Behind his burly form stretched the dimness of a grey, ghostly field.

'What is't ye hev to say to me? Hev done wi' it quick,' she said
sullenly.

'It be jest this, Rosa,' he began with dogged gravity. 'I want t' tell
ye that ef any trouble comes t'ye after I'm gone--ye know t' what I
refer--I want t' tell ye that I'm prepared t' act square by ye. I've
written out on an envelope my address in London. Luke Stock, care o'
Purcell and Co., Smithfield Market, London.'

'Ye're a bad, sinful man. I jest hate t' sight o' ye. I wish ye were
dead.'

'Ay, but I reckon what ye'd ha best thought o' that before. Ye've
changed yer whistle considerably since Tuesday. Nay, hould on,' he
added, as she struggled to push past him. 'Here's t' envelope.'

She snatched the paper, and tore it passionately, scattering the
fragments on to the road. When she had finished, he burst out angrily:

'Ye cussed, unreas