leasantly, "you'd best go into the
back parlour and listen to your beloved husband playing hymns so
trustfully."

She went away, still without speaking, and Marion, no longer feeling
defensive before a stranger, closed her eyes. Really his fat hands were
very gentle, very clever and quick. After a few moments he had finished,
and she was able to turn her face to the wall and talk to her baby that
had been saved to her, and to exult that after all she would see those
eyes. She shivered to think how nearly she had lost him, and was
transfixed by her hatred of Harry. She turned hastily and faced the
room.

Peacey was watching her with his quiet eyes. He said in a silken voice,
"This sort of thing wouldn't happen to you if you were married to me."

She lay quite still, looking at the ceiling. She knew that what he said
was true.

"You've looked at me as if I were a pickpocket, you have," he went on,
"just because I want to marry you. I don't hold it against you. You're
young. That young, that it's a shame this has happened to you. But after
to-day perhaps you'll judge me a bit fairer. You see, I'm older than
you, and I've seen a bit of the world, and I know how things are. And I
knew you'd have a nasty jar like you had to-day before you were through
with it. And I don't doubt you'll have a few more before you're done. It
ain't too good for the little one, if you'll excuse me mentioning it.
You can't expect a man of any feelings to look on without trying to do
what he can."

She looked up to scan his face for some sign of sincerity, and found
herself for the first time wishing that she might find it and have
reason to distrust her own dislike of him. But he was sitting sideways,
with his head turned away from her, and she could see nothing of him but
his hot black clothes and his fat hand slowly stroking the thigh of his
crossed leg in its tight trouser. A sigh shook the dark bulk of his
back.

"Me of all men," he said softly, "who had such a mother."

There was a long pause. She grew curious.

"Is she dead?" she asked.

"Died when I was ten. Not a soul's ever cared for me since then. I'm not
sorry. It's made me remember her all the better. And she was one of
God's saints."

His voice was husky. She muttered, "I am sorry," and was annoyed to find
that she really was.

"Why need you be?" he asked. "There's those that haven't that much to
look back on. All I want from you, Miss Marion, is to let me help you.
Or