ere compassionate.

Mrs Orgreave came smiling into the room.

"Well, Mr Edwin, it seems we can only get you in here by main force."

"Are you quite better, Mrs Orgreave?" he rose to greet her.

He had by some means or other to get out.

"I must just run in home a second," he said, after a moment. "I'll be
back in three minutes."

But he had no intention of coming back. He would have told any lie in
order to be free.

In his bedroom, looking at himself in the glass, he could detect on his
face no sign whatever of suffering or of agitation. It seemed just an
ordinary mild, unmoved face.

And this, too, he had always felt and known would come to pass: that
Hilda would not be his. All that romance was unreal; it was not true;
it had never happened. Such a thing could not happen to such as he
was... He could not reflect. When he tried to reflect, the top of his
head seemed as though it would fly off... Cannon! She was with Cannon
somewhere at that very instant... She had specially asked that he
should be told. And indeed he had been told before even Mr and Mrs
Orgreave... Cannon! She might at that very instant be in Cannon's
arms.

It could be said of Edwin that he fully lived that night. Fate had at
any rate roused him from the coma which most men called existence.

Simple Maggie was upset because, from Edwin's absence and her father's
demeanour at supper, she knew that her menfolk had had another terrible
discussion. And since her father offered no remark as to it, she
guessed that this one must be even more serious that the last.

There was one thing that Edwin could not fit into any of his theories of
the disaster which had overtaken him, and that was his memory of Hilda's
divine gesture as she bent over Mr Shushions on the morning of the
Centenary.

VOLUME THREE, CHAPTER ONE.

BOOK THREE--HIS FREEDOM.

AFTER A FUNERAL.

Four and a half years later, on a Tuesday night in April 1886, Edwin was
reading in an easy-chair in his bedroom. He made a very image of
solitary comfort. The easy-chair had been taken from the dining-room,
silently, without permission, and Darius had apparently not noticed its
removal. A deep chair designed by some one learned in the poses natural
to the mortal body, it was firm where it ought to be firm, and where it
ought to yield, there it yielded. By its own angles it threw the head
slightly back, and the knees slightly up. Edwin's slippered feet rested
o