to break
my heart in thinking as Kinraid were dead; he kept it a' to hissel';
and watched me cry, and niver said a word to comfort me wi' t'
truth. It would ha' been a great comfort, sir, only t' have had his
message if I'd niver ha' been to see him again. But Philip niver let
on to any one, as I iver heared on, that he'd seen Charley that
morning as t' press-gang took him. Yo' know about feyther's death,
and how friendless mother and me was left? and so I married him; for
he were a good friend to us then, and I were dazed like wi' sorrow,
and could see naught else to do for mother. He were allays very
tender and good to her, for sure.'

Again a long pause of silent recollection, broken by one or two deep
sighs.

'If I go on, sir, now, I mun ask yo' to promise as yo'll niver tell.
I do so need some one to tell me what I ought to do, and I were led
here, like, else I would ha' died wi' it all within my teeth. Yo'll
promise, sir?'

Jeremiah Foster looked in her face, and seeing the wistful, eager
look, he was touched almost against his judgment into giving the
promise required; she went on.

'Upon a Tuesday morning, three weeks ago, I think, tho' for t'
matter o' time it might ha' been three years, Kinraid come home;
come back for t' claim me as his wife, and I were wed to Philip! I
met him i' t' road at first; and I couldn't tell him theere. He
followed me into t' house--Philip's house, sir, behind t' shop--and
somehow I told him all, how I were a wedded wife to another. Then he
up and said I'd a false heart--me false, sir, as had eaten my daily
bread in bitterness, and had wept t' nights through, all for sorrow
and mourning for his death! Then he said as Philip knowed all t'
time he were alive and coming back for me; and I couldn't believe
it, and I called Philip, and he come, and a' that Charley had said
were true; and yet I were Philip's wife! So I took a mighty oath,
and I said as I'd niver hold Philip to be my lawful husband again,
nor iver forgive him for t' evil he'd wrought us, but hold him as a
stranger and one as had done me a heavy wrong.'

She stopped speaking; her story seemed to her to end there. But her
listener said, after a pause,

'It were a cruel wrong, I grant thee that; but thy oath were a sin,
and thy words were evil, my poor lass. What happened next?'

'I don't justly remember,' she said, wearily. 'Kinraid went away,
and mother cried out; and I went to her. She were asleep, I thought,
so