p, silent grief, as he passed on homewards,
followed by Miss Anne. Once she saw him look up to the hills, where, at
Fern's Hollow, the new house stood out conspicuously against the snow;
and when they passed the shaft, he shuddered visibly; but yet he was
silent, and scarcely seemed to know that she was walking beside him.

The cabin was full of women from Botfield, for Martha had fallen into
violent fits of hysterics, and none of their remedies had any effect in
soothing her. One of them took the dead child from Stephen's arms at the
door, and bade him go away and sit in her cottage till she came to him.
But he turned off towards the hills; and Miss Anne, seeing that she could
say nothing to comfort him just then, watched him strolling along the old
road that led to Fern's Hollow, with his arms folded and his head bent
down, as if he were still carrying that sad burden which he had borne up
from the pit, so closely pressed against his heart.

CHAPTER XV.

RENEWED CONFLICT.

'I'm a murderer, Miss Anne,' said Martha, with a look of settled despair
upon her face, on the evening of the next day.

She had been sitting all the weary hours since morning with her face
buried in her hands, hearing and heeding no one, until Miss Anne came and
sat down beside her, speaking to her in her own kind and gentle tones.
Upon a table in the corner of the cabin lay the little form of the dead
child, covered with a white cloth. The old grandfather was crouching over
the fire, moaning and laughing by turns; and Stephen was again absent,
rambling upon the snowy uplands.

'And for murderers there is pardon,' said Miss Anne softly.

'Oh, I never thought I wanted pardon,' cried Martha; 'I always felt I'd
done my duty better than any of the girls about here. But I've killed
little Nan; and now I remember how cross I used to be when nobody was
nigh, till she grew quite timmer-some of me. Everybody knows I've
murdered her; and now it doesn't signify how bad I am. I shall never get
over that.'

'Martha,' said Miss Anne, 'you are not so guilty of the child's death as
my uncle, who ought to have had the pit bricked over safely when it was
no longer in use. But you say you never thought you wanted pardon. Surely
you feel your need of it now.'

'But God will never forgive me now,' replied Martha hopelessly; 'I see
how wicked I have been, but the chance is gone by. God will not forgive
me now; nor Stephen.'

'We will not talk about S