evil there,
instead of God.

At the end of four years, the neighbours remarked that for two days
no smoke had issued from the chimney of this cottage, nor had anyone
seen the front door opened. There grew a surmise that the quarrel
had flared out at last, and the wedded pair were lying within, in
their blood. The anticipated excitement of finding the bodies was
qualified, however, by a very present sense of the manner in which
the bodies had resented intrusion during life. It was not until
sunset on the second day that the constable took heart to break in
the door.

There were no corpses. The kitchen was tidy, the hearth swept, and
the house empty. On the table lay a folded note, addressed, in the
man's handwriting, to the minister.

"Dear Friend in Grace," it began, "we have been married ten
years, and neither has broken the other; until which happens,
it must be hell between us. We see no way out but to part for
ten years more, going our paths without news of each other.
When that time's up, we promise to meet here, by our door, on
the morning of the first Monday in October month, and try
again. And to this we set our names."--here the two names
followed.

They must have set out by night; for an extinguished candle stood by
the letter, with ink-pot and pen. Probably they had parted just
outside the house, the one going inland up the hill, the other down
the street towards the harbour. Nothing more was heard of them.
Their furniture went to pay the quarter's rent due to the Squire, and
the cottage, six months later, passed into the occupation of Simon
Hancock, waterman.

At this point Simon shall take up the narrative:--

"I'd been tenant over there"--with a nod towards the ruin--"nine year
an' goin' on for the tenth, when, on a Monday mornin', about this
time o' year, I gets out o' bed at five o'clock an' down to the quay
to have a look at my boat; for 'twas the fag-end of the Equinox, and
ther'd been a 'nation gale blowin' all Sunday and all Sunday night,
an' I thought she might have broke loose from her moorin's.

"The street was dark as your hat and the wind comin' up it like gas
in a pipe, with a brave deal o' rain. But down 'pon the quay day was
breakin'--a sort of blind man's holiday, but enough to see the boat
by; and there she held all right. You know there's two posts 'pon
the town-quay, and another slap opposite the door o' the 'Fifteen