, and walked on to the
gully made by the ancient iron-workers, and descended into it.

But great was her disappointment to find that the place of refuge
was destroyed. Attention had been drawn to it by the evidence of
Giles Cheel and Sally Rocliffe. The village youths had visited it,
and had amused themselves with dislodging the great capstone, and
breaking down the sandstone walls. No shelter was now obtainable
there for the homeless: it would no more become a playing place
for the little children of the Dame's school.

She stood looking dreamily at the ruin. Even that last place of
refuge was denied her, had been taken from her in wantonness.

Leisurely she retraced her steps; she saw again the light in the
window of the Ship, and the open door. She, however, turned away--the
welcome was not for her--and entered the village. Few were about,
and such as saw her allowed her to pass without a salutation.

She staggered up some broken steps into the churchyard, and crossed
it, towards the church. No friendly light twinkled through the
window, giving evidence of life, occupation, within. The door was
shut and locked. She seated herself wearily in the porch. The great
building was like an empty husk, from which the spirit was passed,
and it was kept fast barred lest its emptiness should be revealed
to all. The stones under her feet struck a chill through her, the
wall against which she leaned her back froze her marrow, the bench
on which she sat was cold as well. Why had she come to the porch?
She hardly knew. The period at which Mehetabel lived was not one
in which the Church was loved as a mother, nestled into for rest
and consolation. She performed her duties in a cold, perfunctory
manner, and the late Vicar had, though an earnest man, taught
nothing save what concerned the geography of Palestine, and the
weights and measures of Scripture--enough to interest the mind,
nothing to engage the heart, to fill and stablish the soul.

And now, as Mehetabel sat in the cold porch by the barred door,
looking out into the evening sky, she extended, opened, and closed
her right hand, as though trying to grasp, to cling to something,
in her desolation and friendlessness, and could find nothing. Again
a horror came over her, because her child lay so still. Again she
looked at it, and assured herself that it lived--but the life
seemed to be one of sleep, a prelude to the long last sleep.

She wiped her brow. Cold drops stood on