"Whither?"

That Mehetabel could not say.

"Where can you go? Nowhere, save to your husband's house. For
God's sake!" he suddenly exclaimed, knocking his hammer on the
tire, "don't say you are going to Guildford--to Iver Verstage."

Mehetabel raised her heavy eyes, and looked the wheelwright
frankly in the face. "I would rather throw myself and baby into
one of the Hammer Ponds than do that."

"Right! You're a good gal. But there was no knowing. Folks talk.
Come in! You shall have something--and rest a while."

The kind, well-intentioned man laid his large hand on her shoulder
and almost forced her, but gently, towards the house. She would
not enter the door till he had promised not to send for Jonas.

Selena Puttenham, the wright's wife, was a loquacious and inquisitive
woman, and she allowed Mehetabel no rest. She gave her bread and
milk with readiness, and probed her with questions which Mehetabel
could not answer without relating the whole horrible truth, and
this she was resolved not to do.

The wright was busy, and could not remain in his cottage. The wife,
with the kindest intentions, was unable to restrain herself from
putting her guest on the rack. The condition of Mehetabel was one
to rouse curiosity. Why was she there, with her baby, in the early
morning? Without having even covered her head; fasted and jaded?
Had there been a quarrel. If so--about what? Had Bideabout beaten
her? Had he thrust her out and locked the door? If so, in what had
she offended him? Had she been guilty of some grievous misdemeanor?

At length, unable further to endure the torture to which she was
subjected, Mehetabel sprang up, and insisted on leaving the cottage.

Without answering Mrs. Puttenham's question as to whither she was
going, what were her intentions, the unhappy girl hastened out of
the village clasping in her arms the child, which had begun to sob.

And now she made her way towards Witley, of which Thursley was a
daughter parish. She would find the Vicar, who had always treated
her with consideration, and even affection. The distance was
considerable, in her weary condition, but she plodded on in hopes.
He was a man of position and authority, and she could trust him to
protect her and the child. To him she would tell all, in confidence
that he would not betray her secret.

At length, so fagged that she could hardly walk, her arms cramped
and aching, her nerves thrilling, because the child was crying,
and wo