him the more ground for vague boasting,
and he would not have said a word to put them right.

When they reached the Costrells' cottage, John's first care was to
examine the cupboard. He saw that the large wooden chest filled with
odds and ends of rubbish which already stood there was placed on the top
of his own box. Then he tried the lock, and pronounced it adequate; he
didn't want to have Flack meddling round. Now at the moment of parting
with his treasure he was seized with a sudden fever of secrecy. Bessie
meanwhile hovered about the two men, full of excitement and loquacity.
And the children, shut into the kitchen, wondered what could be the
matter.

When all was done, Isaac locked the cupboard, and solemnly presented the
key to John, who added it to the other round his neck. Then Bessie
unlocked the kitchen, and set the children flying, to help her with the
supper. She was in her most bustling and vivacious mood, and she had
never cooked the bloaters better or provided a more ample jug of beer.
But John was silent and depressed.

He took leave at last with many sighs and lingerings. But he had not
been gone half an hour, and Bessie and Isaac were just going to bed,
when there was a knock at the door, and he reappeared.

'Let me lie down there,' he said, pointing to a broken-down old sofa
that ran under the window. 'I'm lonesome somehow, an I've told Louisa.'

His white hair and whiskers stood out wildly round his red face. He
looked old and ill, and the sympathetic Bessie was sorry for him.

She made him a bed on the sofa, and he lay there all night, restless,
and sighing heavily. He missed Eliza more than he had done yet, and was
oppressed with a vague sense of unhappiness. Once, in the middle of the
night when all was still, he stole upstairs in his stocking feet and
gently tried the cupboard door. It was quite safe, and he went down
contented.

An hour or two later he was off, trudging to Frampton through the August
dawn, with his bundle on his back.

SCENE III

Some five months passed away.

One January night the Independent minister of Clinton Magna was passing
down the village street. Clinton lay robed in light snow, and 'sparkling
to the moon.' The frozen pond beside the green, though it was nearly
eight o'clock, was still alive with children, sliding and shouting. All
around the gabled roofs stood laden and spotless. The woods behind the
village, and those running along the top of the sn