lared, so did something flare up in the face of the
Broom-Squire.

"Why do you look like that?" asked Mehetabel, for the look did not
escape her.

"Main't I look as I choose?" he inquired surlily.

"It almost seemed as if you were glad to hear that my poor darling
is ill," complained she.

"Ain't I glad to be home after bein' abroad all day a-wackin', and
abusin' of old Clutch, and then had to walk from Gorlmyn (Godalming),
and the aggravation of knowin' how as the hoss be shakin' his sides
laughin' at me for doin of it. Wot's up with the kid?"

"I really cannot tell, Jonas; he's been restless and moaning all
day. I have not been able to get him to sleep, and I am sure he
has had one or two fits. He became white and stiff. I thought he'd
a-died, and then my heartstrings were like breaking."

"Oh, drat your heartstrings, I don't care to hear of them. So, you
thort he was dyin'. Perhaps he may. More wun'erful things happen
than that. It's the way of half the babies as is born."

"It will kill me if mine is taken from me!" cried Mehetabel, and
cast herself on her knees and embraced the cradle, regardless of
the sprigs of spiked leaves she had stuck round it, and burst into
an agony of tears.

"Now look here," said Jonas; "I've been tried enough wi' old Clutch
to-day, and I don't want to be worreted at night wi' you. Let the
baby sleep if it is sleepin', and get me my vittles. There's others
to attend to in the world than squawlin' brats. It's spoilin' the
child you are. That's what is the meanin' of its goings-on. Leave
it alone, and take no notice, and it'll find out quick enough that
squeals don't pay. I want my supper. Go after the vittles."

Mehetabel lay in her clothes that night. The child continued to be
restless and fretted. Jonas was angry. If he was out all day he
expected to rest well at night; and she carried the cradle in her
arms into the spare room, where the peevishness of the child, and
the rocking and her lullaby could not disturb her husband. As she
bore the cradle, the sprigs of butcher's broom and withered
chrysanthemums fell and strewed her path, leaving behind her a
trail of dying flowers, and of piercing thorns, and berries like
blood-drops. No word of sympathy had the Broom-Squire uttered; no
token had he shown that he regarded her woes and was solicitous
for the welfare of his child. Mehetabel asked for neither. She had
learned to expect nothing from him, and she had ceased to demand