and she knew her
breath would fail her long before that. How lonely and shelterless the
common looked! The soft, swift steps came nearer and nearer.

Was that music she heard? She dared not stop to listen. But
immediately, thereupon, was poured forth on the dim air such a stream
of pearly sounds as if all the necklaces of some heavenly choir of
woman-angels were broken, and the beads came pelting down in a cataract
of hurtless hail. From no source could they come save the bow and
violin of Joseph Jasper! Where could he be? She was so rejoiced to know
that he must be somewhere near, that, for very delight of unsecured
safety, she held her peace, and had almost stopped. But she ran on
again. She was now nigh the ruined hut with which my narrative has made
the reader acquainted. In the mean time the moon had been growing out
of the clouds, clearer and clearer. The hut came in sight. But the look
of it was somehow altered--with an undefinable change, such as might
appear on a familiar object in a dream; and leaning against the side of
the door stood a figure she could not mistake for another than her
musician. Absorbed in his music, he did not see her. She called out,
"Joseph! Joseph!" He started, threw his bow from him, tucked his violin
under his arm, and bounded to meet her. She tried to stop, and the same
moment to look behind her. The consequence was that she fell--but safe
in the smith's arms. That instant appeared a man running. He half
stopped, and, turning from the path, took to the common. Jasper handed
his violin to Mary, and darted after him. The chase did not last a
minute; the man was nearly spent. Joseph seized him by the wrist, saw
something glitter in his other hand, and turned sick. The fellow had
stabbed him. With indignation, as if it were a snake that had bit him,
the blacksmith flung from him the hand he held. The man gave a cry,
staggered, recovered himself, and ran. Joseph would have followed
again, but fell, and for a minute or two lost consciousness. When he
came to himself, Mary was binding up his arm.

"What a fool I am!" he said, trying to get up, but yielding at once to
Mary's prevention. "Ain't it ridic'lous now, miss, that a man of my
size, and ready to work a sledge with any smith in Yorkshire, should
turn sick for a little bit of a job with a knife? But my father was
just the same, and he was a stronger man than I'm like to be, I fancy."

"It is no such wonder as you think," said Mary; "y