ack wi' her," said Susan, addressing that
gentleman before he had time to answer. "I don't want no tears
a-mingled here. Who be that by the gate?"

"'Tis me, Betty Tuffin," returned the owner of that name. "I didn't
come wi' these 'ere young folks--don't think it, my dear. I come to
see if this 'ere noos be true an' to tell you how sorry I be."

"I'd 'low the noos bain't true, but come in all the same, Betty. I be
al'ays glad to see _you_. You'd best be marchin', Jenny Pitcher, you
and your new sweetheart, else it'll be dark afore you get home."

Jenny looked at her admirer, who nodded encouragingly and nudged her
with his elbow.

"I think as we've a-come so far," she remarked, "I must ax leave to
step in for a bit, Miss Vacher. 'Tis a little matter o' business, and
business is a thing what ought to be attended to immediate."

Miss Vacher threw open the door with such violence that the handle
banged against the wall, and stepped back with sarcastic politeness.

"Oh, come in, do. Come, and poke and pry, and see what ye can pick for
yourself."

Sarcasm had turned to fury by the time the end of the sentence was
reached, and, as Jenny, overcome by conflicting emotions, was about to
sink into the nearest chair, she darted forward and snatched it away.

"That's mine anyhow," she cried emphatically. "You shan't touch that."

Jenny almost fell against the table, and gasped for a moment or two,
partly from breathlessness, partly, as presently appeared, from grief.

"Oh, poor Abel!" she groaned, as soon as she could speak. "The poor
dear fellow. Oh, oh dear!"

"I wouldn't take on so if I was you," said Betty sarcastically, while
even Mr. Keynes surveyed his intended with a lowering brow, and
gruffly advised her to give over.

"'Tis a pity to upset yourself so much," said Miss Vacher, with a
shrill laugh. "I don't believe he be dead. Somebody 'ud ha' wrote if
he was. The papers--you can't credit what they say in them papers."

"Oh, he's dead, sure enough," cried Jenny, suddenly recovering
herself. "I know he's dead--I know'd he'd die afore he went out.
There, I had a kind o' porsentiment he'd be killed, and so had he,
poor fellow. That's why he settled everything so thoughtful and kind.
Oh dear, oh dear! It fair breaks my heart to think on't. Poor Abel! he
was too good for this world--that's what he was. We'll never, never
see his likes again."

"Dear, to be sure, think o' that now!" cackled Betty. "I hope ye like