ours of
the setting sun, and the night was by no means dark. Fanny saw at
once the figure of a woman, though she did not at once recognise the
person of her sister. "Oh, mother! oh, mother! oh, mother!" said a
voice from the night; and in a moment Carry Brattle had stretched
herself so far within the window that she had grasped her mother by
the arm.

CHAPTER LIII.

THE FATTED CALF.

[Illustration]

Mrs. Brattle, when she heard her daughter's voice, was so confounded,
dismayed, and frightened, that for awhile she could give no direction
as to what should be done. She had screamed at first, having some dim
idea in her mind that the form she saw was not of living flesh and
blood. And Carry herself had been hardly more composed or mistress of
herself than her mother. She had strayed thither, never having quite
made up her mind to any settled purpose. From the spot in which she
had hidden herself under the bridge when the policeman passed her she
had started when the evening sun was setting, and had wandered on
slowly till the old familiar landmarks of the parish were reached.
And then she came to the river, and looking across could just see
the eaves of the mill through the willows by the last gloaming of
the sunlight. Then she stood and paused, and every now and again had
crept on a few feet as her courage came to her, and at last, by the
well known little path, she had crept down behind the mill, crossing
the stream by the board which had once been so accustomed to her
feet, and had made her way into the garden and had heard her mother
and sister as they talked together at the open window. Any idea which
she had hitherto entertained of not making herself known to them at
the mill,--of not making herself known at any rate to her mother and
sister,--left her at once at that moment. There had been upon her
a waking dream, a horrid dream, that the waters of the mill-stream
might flow over her head, and hide her wickedness and her misery
from the eyes of men; and she had stood and shuddered as she saw the
river; but she had never really thought that her own strength would
suffice for that termination to her sorrows. It was more probable
that she would be doomed to lie during the night beneath a hedge, and
then perish of the morning cold! But now, as she heard the voices at
the window, there could be no choice for her but that she should make
herself known,--not though her father should kill her.

Even Fanny wa