g, good Alfred, and I weep to think that those times of suffering
were perhaps the times of a great happiness that is gone for ever.'"

"Oh, but isn't it a shame to take a poor girl in like that!" cried Mrs.
Goyte. "Never to let on that he was married, and raise her hopes--I call
it beastly, I do."

"You don't know," I said. "You know how anxious women are to fall in
love, wife or no wife. How could he help it, if she was determined to
fall in love with him?"

"He could have helped it if he'd wanted to."

"Well," I said. "We aren't all heroes."

"Oh, but that's different!--The big, good Alfred!--did you ever hear
such Tommy-rot in your life?--Go on--what does she say at the end?"

"Er--' We shall be pleased to hear of your life in England. We all send
many kind regards to your good parents. I wish you all happiness for
your future days. Your very affectionate and ever-grateful Elise.'"

There was silence for a moment, during which Mrs. Goyte remained with
her head dropped, sinister and abstracted. Suddenly she lifted her face,
and her eyes flashed.

"Oh, but I call it beastly, I call it mean, to take a girl in like
that."

"Nay," I said. "Probably he hasn't taken her in at all. Do you think
those French girls are such poor innocent things? I guess she's a great
deal more downy than he."

"Oh, he's one of the biggest fools that ever walked," she cried.

"There you are!" said I.

"But it's his child right enough," she said.

"I don't think so," said I.

"I'm sure of it."

"Oh well," I said--"if you prefer to think that way."

"What other reason has she for writing like that----?"

I went out into the road and looked at the cattle.

"Who is this driving the cows?" I said. She too came out.

"It's the boy from the next farm," she said.

"Oh well," said I, "those Belgian girls! You never know where their
letters will end.--And after all, it's his affair--you needn't bother."

"Oh----!" she cried, with rough scorn--"it's not _me_ that bothers. But
it's the nasty meanness of it. Me writing him such loving letters"--she
put her hands before her face and laughed malevolently--"and sending him
nice little cakes and bits I thought he'd fancy all the time. You bet
he fed that gurrl on my things--I know he did. It's just like him.--I'll
bet they laughed together over my letters. I'll bet anything they
did----"

"Nay," said I. "He'd burn your letters for fear they'd give him away."

There was a black look