must not cry out against that. Yet it makes it all the harder. To
think that you will dedicate all your beautiful life to a memory! it
only makes my loss the greater, and shows the depths of you to me."

She uttered a little scream and her cheek paled, and she put up her
hands with the palms outward as though warding away his words.

"Doan't 'e say things like that or give me any praise, for God's sake. I
caan't bear it. I be weak, weak flesh an' blood, weaker 'n water. If you
could only see down in my heart, you'd be cured of your silly love for
all time."

He did not answer, but picked up her basket and proceeded with her out
of the valley. Chris gave a hand to the child, and save for Tim's
prattle there was no speaking.

At length they reached Newtake, when Martin yielded up the basket and
bade Chris "good-night." He had already turned, when she called him back
in a strange voice.

"Kiss the li'l bwoy, will 'e? I want 'e to. I'm that fond of un. An' he
'peared to take to 'e; an' he said 'By-by' twice to 'e, but you didn't
hear un."

Then the man kissed Tim on a small, purple-stained mouth, and saw his
eyes very lustrous with sleep, for the day was done.

Woman and child disappeared; the sacking nailed along the bottom of
Newtake Gate to keep the young chicks in the farmyard rustled over the
ground, and Martin, turning his face away, moved homewards.

But the veil was not lifted for him; he did not understand. A secret,
transparent enough to any who regarded Chris Blanchard and her
circumstances from a point without the theatre of action, still remained
concealed from all who loved her.

CHAPTER IV

THE END OF THE FIGHT

Will Blanchard was of the sort who fight a losing battle,

"Still puffing in the dark at one poor coal,
Held on by hope till the last spark is out."

But the extinction of his ambitions, the final failure of his enterprise
happened somewhat sooner than Miller Lyddon had predicted. There dawned
a year when, just as the worst of the winter was past and hope began to
revive for another season, a crushing catastrophe terminated the
struggle.

Mr. Blee it was who brought the ill news to Monks Barton, having first
dropped it at Mrs. Blanchard's cottage and announced it promiscuously
about the village. Like a dog with a bone he licked the intelligence
over and, by his delay in imparting the same, reduced his master to a
very fever of irritation.

"Such a gashly thing! Of all