le it. Their estimates only gave him the more ground for vague
boasting, and he would not have said a word to put them right.

When they reached the Costrells' cottage, John's first care was to
examine the cupboard. He saw that the large wooden chest filled with
odds and ends of rubbish which already stood there was placed on the
top of his own box. Then he tried the lock, and pronounced it
adequate; he didn't want to have Flack meddling round. Now, at the
moment of parting with his treasure, he was seized with a sudden fever
of secrecy. Bessie meanwhile hovered about the two men, full of
excitement and loquacity. And the children, shut into the kitchen,
wondered what could be the matter.

When all was done, Isaac locked the cupboard, and solemnly presented
the key to John, who added it to the other round his neck. Then Bessie
unlocked the kitchen, and sent the children flying, to help her with
the supper. She was in her most bustling and vivacious mood, and she
had never cooked the bloaters better or provided a more ample jug of
beer. But John was silent and depressed.

He took leave at last with many sighs and lingerings. But he had not
been gone half an hour, and Bessie and Isaac were just going to bed,
when there was a knock at the door, and he reappeared.

"Let me lie down there," he said, pointing to a broken-down old sofa
that ran under the window. "I'm lonesome somehow, an' I've told
Louisa." His white hair and whiskers stood out wildly round his red
face. He looked old and ill, and the sympathetic Bessie was sorry for
him.

She made him a bed on the sofa, and he lay there all night, restless,
and sighing heavily. He missed Eliza more than he had done yet, and
was oppressed with a vague sense of unhappiness. Once, in the middle
of the night when all was still, he stole upstairs in his stockinged
feet and gently tried the cupboard door. It was quite safe, and he
went down contented.

An hour or two later he was off, trudging to Frampton through the
August dawn, with his bundle on his back.

SCENE III

Some five months passed away.

One January night the Independent minister of Clinton Magna was passing
down the village street. Clinton lay robed in light snow, and "sparkling
to the moon." The frozen pond beside the green, though it was nearly
eight o'clock, was still alive with children, sliding and shouting. All
around the gabled roofs stood laden and spotless. The woods behin