tabel was
aware of one thing only, that she had nothing more to fear, that
her baby was safe from pursuit. It was this thought that dominated
her and caused the laugh of relief. She had not in the smallest
degree realized how it was that this relief was obtained.

"Fetch a hurdle," said Colpus, "and, Polly, run in and send a couple
of men. We must carry him to the Punch-Bowl. I reckon he's pretty
well done for. I don't see a sign of life in him."

The Broom-Squire was laid on the gass.

Strange is the effect of death on a man's clothes. The moment the
vital spark has left the body, the garments hang about him as though
never made to fit him. They take none of the usual folds; they lose
their gloss--it is as though life had departed out of them as well.

Mehetabel seated herself on a bit of swelling ground and looked on,
without understanding what she saw; seeing, hearing, as in a dream;
and after the first spasm of relief, as if what was being done in
no way concerned her, belonged to another world to her own. It was
as though she were in the moon and saw what men were doing on the
earth.

When the Broom-Squire had been lifted upon a hurdle, then Polly
Colpus thought right to touch Mehetabel, and say in a low tone:
"You will follow him and go to the Punch-Bowl?"

"I will never, never go there again. I have said so," answered
Mehetabel.

Then to avoid being pressed further, she stood up and went away,
bearing her child in her arms.

The men looked after her and shook their heads.

"Bideabout has had a blow on the forehead," said Colpus.

Mehetabel returned to the school, entered without a word, and seated
herself by the fire.

"Have you succeeded?" asked the widow.

"How?"

"Will Farmer Colpus take you?"

"I don't know."

"What have you in your hand?"

Mehetabel opened her fingers and allowed Betty Chivers to remove
from her hand a lump of ironstone.

"What are you carrying this for, Matabel?"

"I defend baby with it," she answered.

"Well, you do not need it in my house," said the dame, and placed
the liver-colored lump on the table.

"How hot your hand is," she continued. "Here, let me feel again. It
is burning. And your forehead is the same. Are you unwell, Matabel?"

"I am cold," she answered dreamily.

"You have been over-worried and worked," said the kind old woman.
"I will get you a cup of tea."

"He won't follow me any more and try to take my baby away," said
Mehetabel.

"I am g