Andy would call again
soon,--maybe to-night! While Andy, in the hot streets, was looking at
every closed shutter, wondering if Estelle was behind it.

"Poor little Ann! she"--

No! not even to himself would he say, "She likes me"; but his face grew
suddenly fiery red, and he lashed Jerry spitefully.

A damp, sharp air was blowing up from the bay that evening, when the
milk-wagon rumbled up the lane towards home. Only on the high tree-tops
the sun lingered; beneath were broad sweeps of brown shadows cooling
into night. The lindens shook out fresh perfume into the dew and quiet.
The few half-tamed goats that browse on the hills hunted some dark
corner under the pines to dampen out in the wet grass the remembrance of
the scorching day. Here and there passed some laborer going home in his
shirt-sleeves, fanning off the hot dust with his straw hat, glad of the
chance to stop at the cart-wheel and gossip with Andy.

"Ye 'r' late, Fawcett. What news from town?"

So that it was nearly dark before he came under the shadow of the great
oak by his own gate. The Quaker was walking backwards and forwards along
the lane. Andy stopped to look at her, therefore; for she was usually so
quiet and reticent in her motion.

"What kept thee all day, Andrew?" catching the shaft. "Was summat wrong?
One ill, maybe?"--her lips parched and stiff.

"What ails ye, Jane?"--holding out his hand, as was their custom when
they met. "No. No one ailin'; only near baked with th' heat. I was wi'
old Joe,"--lowering his voice. "He took me home,--to his hole, that is;
I stayed there, ye see. Well, God help us all! Come up, Jerry! D' ye
smell yer oats? Eh! the basket ye've got? No, he'd touch none of it.
It's not victual he's livin' on, this day. I wish 'n this matter was
done with."

He drove on slowly: something had sobered the Will-o'-the-wisp in Andy's
brain, and all that was manly in him looked out, solemn and pitying. The
woman was standing by the barn-door when he reached it, watching his
lips for a stray word as a dog might, but not speaking. He unhitched the
horse, put him in his stall, and pushed the wagon under cover,--then
stopped, looking at her uncertainly.

"I--I don't like to talk of this, I hardly know why. But I'm goin' to
stay with him to-morrow,--till th' trial's done with."

"Yes, Andrew."

"I wish 'n he hed a friend," he said, after a pause, breaking off bits
of the sunken wall. "Not like me, Jane," raising his voice, and t