as allotted the spare room in
Jude's house, whither she retired early, and where they could hear
her through the ceiling below, honestly saying the Lord's Prayer in
a loud voice, as the Rubric directed.

As, however, she could not sleep, and discovered that Sue and Jude
were still sitting up--it being in fact only ten o'clock--she dressed
herself again and came down, and they all sat by the fire till a late
hour--Father Time included; though, as he never spoke, they were
hardly conscious of him.

"Well, I bain't set against marrying as your great-aunt was," said
the widow. "And I hope 'twill be a jocund wedding for ye in all
respects this time. Nobody can hope it more, knowing what I do
of your families, which is more, I suppose, than anybody else now
living. For they have been unlucky that way, God knows."

Sue breathed uneasily.

"They was always good-hearted people, too--wouldn't kill a fly if
they knowed it," continued the wedding guest. "But things happened
to thwart 'em, and if everything wasn't vitty they were upset. No
doubt that's how he that the tale is told of came to do what 'a
did--if he WERE one of your family."

"What was that?" said Jude.

"Well--that tale, ye know; he that was gibbeted just on the brow of
the hill by the Brown House--not far from the milestone between
Marygreen and Alfredston, where the other road branches off. But
Lord, 'twas in my grandfather's time; and it medn' have been one of
your folk at all."

"I know where the gibbet is said to have stood, very well," murmured
Jude. "But I never heard of this. What--did this man--my ancestor
and Sue's--kill his wife?"

"'Twer not that exactly. She ran away from him, with their child,
to her friends; and while she was there the child died. He wanted
the body, to bury it where his people lay, but she wouldn't give it
up. Her husband then came in the night with a cart, and broke into
the house to steal the coffin away; but he was catched, and being
obstinate, wouldn't tell what he broke in for. They brought it in
burglary, and that's why he was hanged and gibbeted on Brown House
Hill. His wife went mad after he was dead. But it medn't be true
that he belonged to ye more than to me."

A small slow voice rose from the shade of the fireside, as if out of
the earth: "If I was you, Mother, I wouldn't marry Father!" It came
from little Time, and they started, for they had forgotten him.

"Oh, it is only a tale," said Sue che