m sure I am impartial, for I like them both so much--he was more
convincing than the squire; but then I don't think I ever met a more
convincing speaker. Of course I have met very few good speakers, but I
doubt if there are many to surpass Mr. Derwent.

He took me home about ten o'clock, and I saw that the village had got
some new excitement, but the Cynic's presence barred me from
participating in it. At the cottage, however, I learned everything,
for a gossip had, as usual, hastened to tell Mother Hubbard the news,
and she was still discussing it on my arrival, though my invalid ought
to have been in bed.

Nobody in Windyridge takes a Sunday newspaper, but a visitor from
Airlee had left a _News of the World_ at Smiddles's, and after his
departure Smiddles had glanced down its columns and found a report of
Ginty's trial and sentence. Mrs. Smiddles, bursting with importance,
hurried off to impart the information to Sar'-Ann's mother. Sar'-Ann's
mother, as might have been anticipated, had expressed her opinion of
Ginty's moral character in loud and emphatic language which echoed
round the village and awakened a like response.

I closed the door wearily on the woman and went to bed, for it was too
late to see Sar'-Ann that night. I wish I had made the endeavour now,
for with the morning there came news that distressed me terribly.
Sar'-Ann's baby had been born at midnight, and poor Sar'-Ann was dead!

CHAPTER XXVII

MOTHER HUBBARD HEARS THE CALL

The world is very drab to-day, as I look out of my bedroom window at
the Hall and once more open the book in which I set down the
experiences of my pilgrimage. I am living in luxury again, a luxury
which has, alas! more of permanency in it than before. The little room
in which I am writing is charming in the daintiness of its colouring
and the simplicity of its furnishings. There is just a suspicion of
pink in the creamy wallpaper, and the deeper cream of the woodwork.
The bed, like the dressing table and the chairs, is in satinwood,
beautifully inlaid, and the wardrobe is an enormous cavern in the wall,
with mirrored doors behind which my few belongings hang suspended like
ghostly stalactites. The floor is nearly covered with a Wilton rug,
and the rest of it is polished until it looks like glass. A few choice
etchings and engravings hang upon the walls--Elaine dreaming of
Lancelot, Dante bending over the dead body of Beatrice, Helen of Troy,
and similar su