"I wish I was in the _Seamew_. I'm good for
nout wi' this thing a-hangin' ower me." An' that's all as Brice heard. An'
he's afeard o' fayther and Dudley awful. Dudley could lick him to pot if
he crossed him, and he and fayther 'ud think nout o' havin' him afore the
justices for poachin', and swearin' him into gaol.'

'But why does he think it's about _me_?'

'Hish!' said Meg, who fancied she heard a sound, but all was quiet. 'I
can't say--we're in danger, lass. I don't know why--but _he_ does, an' so
do I, an', for that matter, so do _ye_.'

'Meg, I'll leave Bartram.'

'Ye can't.'

'Can't. What do you mean, girl?'

'They won't let ye oot. The gates is all locked. They've dogs--they've
bloodhounds, Brice says. Ye _can't_ git oot, mind; put that oot o' your
head.

'I tell ye what ye'll do. Write a bit o' a note to the lady yonder at
Elverston; an' though Brice be a wild fellah, and 'appen not ower good
sometimes, he likes me, an' I'll make him take it. Fayther will be grindin'
at mill to-morrow. Coom ye here about one o'clock--that's if ye see the
mill-sails a-turnin'--and me and Brice will meet ye here. Bring that old
lass wi' ye. There's an old French un, though, that talks wi' Dudley. Mind
ye, that un knows nout o' the matter. Brice be a kind lad to me, whatsoe'er
he be wi' others, and I think he won't split. Now, lass, I must go. God
help ye; God bless ye; an', for the world's wealth, don't ye let one o'
them see ye've got ought in your head, not even that un.'

Before I could say another word, the girl had glided from me, with a wild
gesture of silence, and a shake of her head.

I can't at all account for the state in which I was. There are resources
both of energy and endurance in human nature which we never suspect until
the tremendous voice of necessity summons them into play. Petrified with a
totally new horror, but with something of the coldness and impassiveness of
the transformation, I stood, spoke, and acted--a wonder, almost a terror,
to myself.

I met Madame on my return as if nothing had happened. I heard her ugly
gabble, and looked at the fruits of her hour's shopping, as I might hear,
and see, and talk, and smile, in a dream.

But the night was dreadful. When Mary Quince and I were alone, I locked
the door. I continued walking up and down the room, with my hands clasped,
looking at the inexorable floor, the walls, the ceiling, with a sort
of imploring despair. I was afraid to tell my dear ol