ging ankle-deep in snow, unconscious of everything but
trembling suspense about what was going on in the cottage, and the
effect of each alternative on his future lot. No, not quite
unconscious of everything else. Deeper down, and half-smothered by
passionate desire and dread, there was the sense that he ought not to
be waiting on these alternatives; that he ought to accept the
consequences of his deeds, own the miserable wife, and fulfil the
claims of the helpless child. But he had not moral courage enough to
contemplate that active renunciation of Nancy as possible for him: he
had only conscience and heart enough to make him for ever uneasy under
the weakness that forbade the renunciation. And at this moment his
mind leaped away from all restraint toward the sudden prospect of
deliverance from his long bondage.

"Is she dead?" said the voice that predominated over every other
within him. "If she is, I may marry Nancy; and then I shall be a good
fellow in future, and have no secrets, and the child--shall be taken
care of somehow." But across that vision came the other
possibility--"She may live, and then it's all up with me."

Godfrey never knew how long it was before the door of the cottage
opened and Mr. Kimble came out. He went forward to meet his uncle,
prepared to suppress the agitation he must feel, whatever news he was
to hear.

"I waited for you, as I'd come so far," he said, speaking first.

"Pooh, it was nonsense for you to come out: why didn't you send one of
the men? There's nothing to be done. She's dead--has been dead for
hours, I should say."

"What sort of woman is she?" said Godfrey, feeling the blood rush to
his face.

"A young woman, but emaciated, with long black hair. Some
vagrant--quite in rags. She's got a wedding-ring on, however. They
must fetch her away to the workhouse to-morrow. Come, come along."

"I want to look at her," said Godfrey. "I think I saw such a woman
yesterday. I'll overtake you in a minute or two."

Mr. Kimble went on, and Godfrey turned back to the cottage. He cast
only one glance at the dead face on the pillow, which Dolly had
smoothed with decent care; but he remembered that last look at his
unhappy hated wife so well, that at the end of sixteen years every line
in the worn face was present to him when he told the full story of this
night.

He turned immediately towards the hearth, where Silas Marner sat
lulling the child. She was perfectly qu