Into the Highways and Hedges

by F. F. Montrésor

  CHAPTER VIII.

  I do not see them here; but after death God knows I know the faces I shall see, Each one a murdered self, with low last breath, I am thyself, what hast thou done to me? And I--and I--thyself (Lo! each one saith), And thou thyself to all eternity.

  --_Rossetti._

  As for Meg, she turned her face towards the farm again, and of thatjourney back she never liked to think so long as she lived.

  There are griefs we outlive, whose dead faces we can bear to look on,recognising that they are dead; but there are some hours of pain we cannever look at overmuch, even through the merciful veil of many years, asthere are some joys which we know will be ours always, so long as we areourselves, those sharpest pains and joys which touch the eternal in us,and make us realise what is meant by the "doing away of time".

  That her father _would_ not see her, even if she entreated him, had beenthe one thing that had not seemed possible to the daughter who lovedhim.

  During the long drive back to N----town, his message kept running in herhead: "As we sow, so we must reap;--both she and I; both father andchild".

  It was burnt into her brain and into her heart. She saw it when she shuther eyes; she heard it when she stopped her ears.

  "It is the hopeless law of all one's life," she thought. "And there isno going against it. Father does not even try to. He might have tried!No, no; it was not his fault. He was right."

  And as she had attempted a hundred times before in her girlhood tojustify him to herself when he might have stood up for his daughter anddid not, so her tired brain tried to justify him now.

  She would rather believe that she was too bad for forgiveness, than thathe had not depth of affection enough to be forgiving.

  She was terribly anxious about him too. Mrs. Russelthorpe had said thathe was better; but then she had also declared that it might be his"death warrant" if he were suddenly awaked. Surely _that_ did not soundas if he were out of danger. She went over the whole interview again,and had just got to the climax for the twentieth time, when the stoppingof the carriage brought her with a jerk from the garden at Lupcombe tothe busy street of N----town, and the entrance of the "Pig andWhistle".

  "Have we arrived?" said Meg, getting out as if she were in a dream. "Ithought we had just started!"

  The landlord, who had bustled to the door at the sound of wheels, lookedat her inquisitively. The preacher's wife, about whom there was a veryromantic story, had always interested him. He had thought her a verygentle-mannered and sweet-voiced woman, and, for his part, ratheradmired her funny accent and "foreign" ways. He was full of wonder justnow. It was only the gentry who ordered carriages in that way. The ideaof Barnabas Thorpe's wife posting to Lupcombe! A fifteen-shilling drive!But he had seen the gold in her purse; she had evidently enough money topay.

  How very sad she looked! The distressed expression in her eyes touchedhim. "Come in, ma'am, and have a sup o' some'ut," he saidgood-naturedly. "The 'eat's been too much for you! I wouldn't ask a ladyinto the bar; an' I know as Barnabas Thorpe's wife won't touch goodliquor; but, if you'll honour me by coming into the parlour, I'll bringyou a cup of tea in a trice. You look fit to drop; and, if I might makeso bold, just one atom of brandy in it would be neither here nor there,and would do you no harm at all. Now I won't take 'No,' ma'am, thoughyour husband do try to damage my trade. Just you come in and sit a bit,while the horse is changed."

  "Thank you," said Meg. "The sun is too hot I suppose, and the bustlemakes one feel giddy."

  The clock in the market-place struck seven while she was speaking; thesun's rays were certainly not overpowering now, whatever they had been;and a great bank of thunder-clouds was steadily rising in the east.

  The landlord glanced from her to the sky, and mopped his forehead withhis handkerchief.

  "You're like my wife, ma'am," he said. "She'd feel for you, only she'sbeen in the cellar this last half-hour,--on account of the storm, Imean," he added hastily. "Thunder always upsets her. Come along thisway, ma'am. You do look poorly!"

  His visitor followed, still rather as if she were not quite certainwhere she was. Meg, indeed, never knew exactly how she got into thatlittle back parlour; but the tea, which was guilty of more than a dropof brandy, revived her. Her father's message left off sounding in herears, the garden at Lupcombe became less painfully distinct, and shesuddenly remembered that she had fasted since she had started in themorning; and this, possibly, was why she felt faint.

  Her host nodded approvingly when she ordered something to eat. Meg'shead ached so that she could not calculate how much money she ought tohave left; but she knew that there should be more than enough to pay fora meal.

  She dived to the bottom of her pocket: her purse must be there; it hadher husband's savings in it, as well as the price of her diamonds. Shecould not have done anything so dreadful as to lose his hard-wonearnings! Besides, she had not paid her bill. She pulled out herhandkerchief, and then the pocket itself, inside out. She was staringblankly at it when the landlord bustled back.

  He guessed at once what had happened. The empty pocket suggested it. Hewas good-natured and consolatory, but overflowing with curiosity when heheard that she had had it last at the pawnbroker's.

  Mrs. Thorpe at the Jew's over the way! What would the Thorpes have said,had they known? He wondered whether the poor young thing had got herselfinto some scrape, and heartily pitied her, if she had; but _his_ moneywas safe anyhow; he knew the family well enough to be very sure of that.He could afford to take it easily.

  "Come, come," he said, on her refusing to eat because she "hadn't apenny left to pay with," "I'm not so poor, thank goodness, that I can'tafford to wait till next time Tom Thorpe drives his foals to market;and, if they'd wish you to starve, it's a crying shame, ma'am, and I'dnot have thought it of them. I've never heard that the Thorpes weren'topen-handed."

  "They are all most generous," said Meg quickly, and she ate the slice ofbeef. Certainly, whatever her fears were, she did not imagine that anyof her relatives-in-law would have grudged it to her. She could not letthat imputation rest on them.

  The food brought a tinge of colour to her face, and she regained herusual gentle dignity of manner. She would not allow this good gossip,who asked a great many questions, to fancy that she was terrified atgoing back. It would not be fair to Barnabas!

  How miserable she really was it would be hard to say. The more shethought of it, the more her shrinking from what was before her grew.

  She pictured Tom's repressed contempt, and Barnabas passionately angry,as when he had thrashed Timothy. She dreaded the way they would all askabout her father--whether she had found him, and why not; and then, witha horror of loneliness, she remembered that she could never even try tosee him again now. "As she had sowed, so she must reap!" Ah, it wasbeginning again! Meg rose hastily.

  "I promised that I would go back to-night," she said, "and I must go. Imeant to drive; I had enough money of my own to pay for that--but I havelost it, and my husband's too, which is worse. He will have to pay avery long bill for me as it is." And Meg blushed painfully. "I don'twant to run up any more debts. What would be the cheapest possible wayof getting home--if I don't walk?"

  "Walk!" said the landlord, "you don't look fit to walk a quarter of amile, let alone fifteen! I'd provide you a trap very reasonable, ma'am,though it's late to be going all that way now--or--oh! here's JohnnyDale back; I sent him about the purse--well, have they got it?"

  "Dun knaw nothin' 'bout it, theer," he answered, with a slow stare atMeg, who, on her part, was filled with a vague recollection of havingseen this boy at the farm. "Granny's got round again. Will 'ee tell thepreacher so?" he said suddenly, breaking into a broad grin. "And will'ee tell Maister Tummas that I'm doin' well, and gettin' five shillingsa quarter besides my keep, and granny's uncommon obligated to him forgettin' me th' place, and she's over here to-day marketing?"

  "Ay, so she be; and that's how you can get back, ma'am," cried thelandlord. "Why, Granny Da
le 'ull have to pass within a mile ofCaulderwell. She could put you down at the cross path, if you could runthat bit in the dark. I'll be bound she'll do that much for yourhusband's sake, though that donkey of hers is precious slow; you won'tbe there afore eleven. Here, Johnny, where is that granny o' yours? Inthe bar, eh? She doan't hold with the preacher's principles 'cept whenshe's by way o' dying, the old sinner! But the donkey'll take you backsafe. Shall I go and find her? Though I don't know," he addeddoubtfully; "Granny Dale's a queer sort of company for a lady like you."

  And he went on his mission, the preacher's wife thanking him with thepretty gratitude that won his liking. He little guessed that, at thebottom of her heart, Mrs. Thorpe would have rejoiced to know that she,personally, would never get home again.

  It was very late when the donkey cart at last started. Granny Dale was amost erratic old dame. She would not be hurried--"Not for twenty Mrs.Thorpes".

  Her voice sounded suspiciously thick, and she smoked a short clay pipe.She was horribly dirty, and smelt of gin. Meg hardly noticed her, thoughat any other time she would have been disgusted.

  The reins hung loose in the woman's gnarled hands, that were brown andknotted like the branches of one of the stunted trees of that country.

  The donkey trotted on steadily with a responsible air. On he wentthrough the street, where the passersby remarked on granny's companion,and where granny herself took the pipe from her lips to shout facetiousobservations in the broadest of dialect to her acquaintances. On intothe open country again, where the view of the sky broadened, and onecould see how the thunder-clouds were piled up, solid and threatening,like the battlements of a city--great purple masses, divided only in oneplace by a narrow red rift.

  Granny pointed towards them with her whip. "Theer be a starm coomin'oop," she said. "Are yo' fleyed o' the thunder?"

  Meg made no reply; she was thinking of many things past and to come. She_was_ "fleyed"--but not of the thunder.

  "An' if yo' wur th' queen hersel', yo' moight fash yersel' to answerwhen yo're spoke to!" cried granny with a sudden burst of fury. "Eh, Iknow what they all says, that ye be quality born, an' ran awa' wi'Barnabas Thorpe!--an gradely fule he wur that day!--and that yo've pinedever since. An', if yo' wur all th' quality o' th' land, theer's no callto be so high as not to hear a body as talks to 'ee--wastin' my goodwords, treatin' me loike th' dirt under yo' feet, who am nothin' o' th'soart! 'specially"--indignantly--"when yo're ridin' i' my donkey cart!"

  "I am very sorry," said Meg, effectually roused this time. "I didn'tknow you were speaking to me; I was thinking of something else.Indeed,"--seeing that the excuse was likely to provoke a freshstorm,--"I didn't mean to be 'high' in the least; but,"--seizing on thepoint in her misfortunes most likely to appeal to granny'ssympathies--"I lost my purse in the town, and it had money of myhusband's in it."

  "Eh!" said granny, twisting round in her seat and taking the pipe out ofher mouth. "Theer's a pretty business! That do gi'e 'ee some'ut to thinkabeawt surely. My man 'ud ha' beaten me black and blue if I'd ha' donethat; he wur free wi' his blows, Jacob wur, 'specially in his cups; butthe preacher's noan o' that soart."

  "No," said Meg; "he is not that sort." In a lighter mood she would havesmiled at the statement. She was not afraid of physical violence. Evenin her wildest terrors (and Meg's imagination was apt to becomeunreasonable in proportion to the overstrain on her bodily powers) sheknew that _that_ would be as impossible to Barnabas as to her ownfather.

  Yet granny's suggestion, like Long John's story of "Maister Tummas,"presented the more brutal side of life to her, and depressed her yetfurther. She shrank with increasing nervousness from the thought of thatalien element of roughness at the farm.

  She was fearfully tired; and, in the reaction from the excitement of themorning, could fight no longer against a melancholy that swept over her,as the clouds steadily rising from the east swept over the sky.

  She saw the rest of her life in as unnatural and lurid a light as thatwhich now lay in a streak across the marshes, and in which the polishedstalks of the marsh grass shone red.

  "There is such a glare under the clouds! how it makes one's eyes ache!"she said; and then she became aware that her charioteer was giving her agreat deal of highly seasoned advice on her behaviour to her husband.

  Granny hated all ladies. She hated them even in their natural place. Shehad an old and standing grudge against them. But when they chose todescend from their unassailable platform--when they were silly enoughto force themselves into the grade of honest workers--then they ought tobe made to mend their ways, and eat humble pie in large mouthfuls--notto keep up their old airs and insult their betters.

  "Oh, I know," said Meg, speaking more to herself than to granny; "but Ican't help being different from the others; I have tried, but it is ofno use. There are things one can do, and things one can't do; the thingI have tried I can't!"

  And granny had no more idea what hopelessness lay in that confessionthan if Meg had spoken in a foreign language. It even irritated her themore, as a fresh avowal of a claim to the "fine-ladyism" which to herwas like a red rag to a bull.

  "Can't help!" she cried. "An' let me tell 'ee this, young woman, if Iwur your husband I'd mak' yo' help it. Ah, an' he wull one day. Youthink the preacher's made of naught but butter; but yo'll find outtheer's more nor that in him. It's all fine for a while. Oh yes, I'vehe'rd o' yo're stand-off ways wi' him; but a mon 'ull ha' somesatisfaction from the woman he feeds and clothes. I suppose you've notthought o' that? Ye fancy becos ye are young, and ha' got eyes that lookas if they saw through stone walls, that ye can do as ye like wi' a mon!An' so 'ee con, so 'ee con for a bit; but it's only fur a bit wi' ony of'em, it don't last. Eh, I knaw. I con tell thee, I wur a greater beautythan ever yo' wur, my lass; and Jacob wur as big a fule over me afore hemarried as ever yo' see'd; an', afore that I'd been his'n a month, hekicked me so that----"

  "I don't want to hear, please!" said Meg; but granny laughed scornfully,and proceeded with the recital. Whether because she took a fiercepleasure in shocking her companion's sensibilities, or because shethought it would be good for the lady to realise what she might have hadto suffer if Barnabas hadn't been "softer nor some," she spared nodetails.

  "It wur no marvel Timothy wur born quare," said granny; "he wur clivererthan most to live at all, poor lad; tho' ye do look down on 'im." Andthere was a kind of fierce affection in that last speech; a defiant lovefor the lad she had born in the midst of sore mis-usage, that woke Meg'spity more than the horrible stories of gross cruelty that had beenpoured into her unwilling ears.

  "But all men are not like that, granny," she said at last.

  "Naw; some be too fur th' other way abeaut," said granny. "BarnabasThorpe 'ud ha' brought yo' to knaw yo're place by now, ef he'd made yefeel him maister; but he won't stand yo' for ever, an' so I tell 'ee;and he'll be i' th' right too. Yo' con go on talking i' that quaremincing way, as a body can't understan'; yo' con go on lookin' as if yeweren't made o' th' same stuff as us (just because ye've been fed andpampered all yo're life), and pretending not to hear what's said to 'ee,and holdin' him off wi' yo're airs; but he'll be sick o' that one day,and where 'ull yo're foine ladyship be then?"

  "I don't know," said Meg apathetically. "Perhaps I shall have learnednot to feel any more. People can't go on caring about things always, Isuppose. One will grow old some day, mercifully."

  And she looked at the witch-like old hag beside her, who had been thecountry beauty once, and whose husband had kicked her when he was tiredof her (within a month), and who had found consolation in smoking anddrinking. "Or perhaps I may die," she said; "which would be muchbetter!"

  A flash of lightning almost blinded her, even while she spoke, and thequickly following crash of thunder drowned her last words.

  Granny leaned forward, shifting the whip in her hand, and struck thedonkey with the butt end.

  "We'll just get to th' miser's hut i' time," she said; "but I'll put yeout o' the cart if ye talk o' death in a thu
nder-starm; it's temptin'the Lard."

  It was quite dark now, except when the lightning opened the sky, andmomentarily lighted up the stretch of marsh land. The donkey's pacequickened, and Meg held on to the side of the cart, while they joltedrapidly over the uneven track. What a tiny speck they seemed under thatvast canopy of cloud!

  Every other living thing was in hiding, except a gull, flying inland,and very close to the ground.

  Meg heard its harsh cry, and saw, with a thrill of envy, the gleam ofthe white wings as it swept past.

  "'Oh that I had wings like a dove; for then would I fly away and be atrest.'" But there was no flying away for her, no escaping the slowreaping that would follow the hasty sowing, so surely as the thunderfollowed the flash. Ah, there it was again, running along the groundlike a fiery serpent; and the thunder, this time, seemed to burst closeto their ears, and fill the whole air, and shake the earth.

  They were at the deserted hut now; and Granny Dale got down and took thetrembling beast out of the shafts, and led him in.

  She had much more sympathy with her donkey than with Meg, who furthertried her temper by standing at the entrance to the hut watching.

  The old woman crouched down on the mud floor by the fireplace, rockingto and fro, muttering something that was meant for a prayer, and castingmalevolent glances at the figure in the doorway. The donkey rubbed hishead on her shoulder; he too was "fleyed o' the starm," which increasedin fury every minute.

  "Look 'ee here," she cried at last, "I'll ha' no more o' this. It ain'tfittin' to gape at the Lard's judgments, as if they wur a show, and it'ull bring Him down on us. I won't be struck cos o' yo', and yo'runcanny ways. Come in, like a Christian, an' say yo'r prayers, and hideyo'r eyes; or else be gwon wi' you; an' a good riddance!"

  The lightning lighted up Meg's pale face as she turned round; thesadness of her expression struck granny afresh. "Theer be some'utunlucky about 'ee," she cried. "I'm wishful I'd not brought ye; I doubtye'll not bring much good to any one. Timothy said as much. Eh, an' whatare ye after now?"

  "I know my way from here," said Meg. "I am not afraid of the storm. Iwon't stay and bring you bad luck, Mrs. Dale." And she slipped out intothe darkness.

  The old woman rose with difficulty and hobbled to the door, which Meghad shut gently behind her. The wind was rising now, and blew against itwith a shrieking gust. Mrs. Dale battled with it for a minute, thensucceeded in opening it, and looked about. At that moment the heavyclouds broke, and down came the rain!--dashing down, whistling throughthe air, like a solid sheet of water, leaping up again on its fall.

  Blessed rain, that had been needed all these hot weeks; that the farmerswould rejoice to hear while they lay in their beds; that the earth wouldgreet, with a sweetness which would rise like incense! The earthspurted up, the willows bent under the onslaught of water. It frightenedthe birds in their nests, and made all small animals cower and peep intheir shelters. It was not a night in which any living being should beout in the open.

  Granny Dale shut the door again, and relighted her pipe; the danger wasover, so there was no further need to pray. She puffed awayphilosophically instead: it was lucky she had brought plenty of "'baccy"with her. The rain was too violent to last. When it should stop, she andthe donkey would jog on again. As for that crazy woman, who couldn'tspeak her own mother tongue properly, she must be getting prettydrenched; but she was the preacher's affair, not Granny Dale's. No; shewas nowhere to be seen; she had vanished like a ghost, or a stormspirit,--why bother about her?

  Granny swore once or twice; she could not help being bothered; and, whenthe storm cleared at last, and she and her donkey started, splashingthrough ooze and slush, making deep ruts in their progress, she peeredanxiously to the right and left, seeing Meg in stunted alder trees, andin clumps of pale reeds, and, even once, in the reflection of the moonin a pool. It looked to her like the girl's white face, upturned andfloating.

  Meg was not on the high road at all; she had turned sharp to the leftfrom the hut, and struck into a short cut to the farm. She fancied sheknew her way across these familiar marshes, even in the dark.

  Indeed, she kept on quite steadily at first, only stooping now and thento make sure with her hands that her feet were still on the track, or toshut her eyes, that were nearly blinded by the lightning. How small shefelt among the immense resistless powers that were at play roundher!--One tiny atom in the midst of the great plan of nature that whirlson through the ages, taking no count of the individual births, anddeaths, and pains and joys! She kept on quite steadily till the sluicegates opened and the water descended with a force that made her stagger,taking her breath away, pelting her, drenching her through and throughin a minute. Meg was swept half round by it, driven backwards a fewsteps in her surprise up against a tree, to which she clunginstinctively. Both her arms were round the trunk, and she felt it swayand creak. Already her feet were in a puddle, nearly ankle-deep.

  "If this goes on much longer, it will be a second deluge," thought she."Were any of the people who were drowned in the Flood rather _glad_ tobe swept away, I wonder?"

  But it did not last. The storm ceased almost as suddenly as it hadbegun. The birds lifted their heads again, and began to chirp a feeblesleepy thanksgiving. The worst was over. Meg loosened her hold of thewillow, and wandered on.

  She was as soaked as if she had fallen into the stream; her clothes werevery heavy, and her steps were more uncertain than they had been. Thetrack was lost in water; everywhere there seemed nothing but shallowglistening pools, which reflected the deep dark sky and the stars, whenthe clouds parted and rolled off.

  Presently Meg found herself on the verge of a salt-water spring that wasdeeper than the others. She discovered that she was going the wrong waywhen she got to the "Pixie's Pool". She had all but walked into it, buthad been stopped by the black post with a supposed depth, marked inrough white figures, put up by one of the Thorpes.

  Meg leaned against the post to rest, and looked down into the blackdepths; and, thus looking, a temptation seemed to rise from them, andlay hold of her soul and body.

  She had so nearly fallen in! Suppose she let herself drop; a step woulddo it, and no one would ever know that it had not been an accident!

  Barnabas would be unhappy--for a time; but his work was his real love,and he never looked on death as a misfortune, and it would set him free.Tom would be rather sorry, Mr. Thorpe more than "rather"; but, afterall, she had always been a strange element at the farm,--never quite oneof them, even when they were kindest. They would go on as before shecame; there would hardly be a place to fill up; she had never been muchgood to any one! She slipped on to her knees and stooped lower over thewater. It seemed drawing her, with a force that was part of the pitilesspower that she had felt in the storm; that she had felt too in her ownlife. "As we sow, so we must reap;" "must reap," it was running in herhead again,--but she could escape the "must" so, and so only.

  Terrible relentless law, that she felt she could bow to no more. Shouldshe break through it once and for ever, so that the reaping should be nomore for her,--in this world, at any rate?

  She could see the moon in the water; she could fancy herself fallingthrough it, disturbing the reflection for a moment, then it would closeover her again; it would look just as though she had never been; itwould _be_ just the same. One life less; it counted for nothing amongthe thousands; and the sky and marsh and water would keep the secret,and she would have to make no more efforts. She was tired, oh so tired!Ah, how the water was pulling her--it was like a magnet to a needle!

  She had failed utterly. Life was a perplexity and a terror; and God wastoo far away--if, indeed, He "was" at all. Scepticism was unnatural toMeg; it meant blank despair to her. The horrors "granny" had poured intoher ears, mingled with her own sense of impotence and failure, made herfeel it better to risk anything, to force a verdict of damnation from anangry God, rather than to stay where He was not, where the heartlesshorror of mechanical laws reigned supreme.

  Natural he
althy love of life was never so strong as it should be in her:she would always rather fly to the ills she knew not, than bear theevils she knew, and face misery she could picture to herself. Hercourage had given way. She shut her eyes and swayed towards the pool.One plunge and it would be done!

  "Margaret, Margaret!" the shout, loud and insistent, rang across themarshes and broke the spell. "Margaret!" farther off and fainter."Margaret, Margaret!" once more, quite away in the distance.

  It was the preacher's voice. He must be looking for her. Meg had sprungto her feet at the first call. A choking sensation rose to her throat,and tears to her eyes. Had he been searching for her all night? _He_ didnot break his bargain, nor fling aside his responsibilities, whatevershe did; and she had promised him she would go back. What a coward shewas! What a mad, dishonourable coward! With a burning sense of shame,Meg turned her back on the death that had tempted her sorely, with ayearning, that was deeper than articulate prayer, to the God who aloneknows how hard life is.

  "One _must_ pay one's debts and keep one's promises. I'll go on againand finish it," she said. She spoke to the invisible, and did not knowshe had spoken aloud. Then she began to stumble in the direction of thefarm.

  It was fresher and cooler after the rain; but her feet sank into thesoftened ground, making puddles where they trod, and her wet clothesclung to her.

  She would have run if she could, but that was impossible; and she wasbeginning to have a vague impression that she had been several weeks, atleast, struggling over these moonlit boggy tracks. The path was swamped;but by some wonderful chance she did find herself at last in thestraight cart road to the farm.

  The house stood before her, visible at the end of the road, silhouettedblack and solid against the sky. It was at night that she had seen itfirst.

  Then with that recollection came back the wonder as to what they wouldall say. How long had she been gone? Her senses were so confused thatshe could not think connectedly, much less find words in which toexplain.

  She reached the house and leaned against the rough grey stone, consciousthe while that her limbs would not have carried her any further. Thedoor was shut, but the light streamed from the windows. Who was up solate? She could hear voices inside. Some one was saying:--

  "Gi'e me the lantern; I'll start again." But she heard as if in a dream.Approaching steps sounded behind the door, but she had not knocked. Itwas opened. The light flashed in her eyes.

  "Eh, who is it? my lass!" said Barnabas. She felt his hand on her armfor a moment, and then he put down the lantern, lifted her up as if shewere a child, and carried her right in. She was in Mr. Thorpe's woodenchair by the fire, and Barnabas was kneeling beside her; she looked athim with a vague wonder at seeing him so moved.

  "Barnabas, is it morning?" she said quickly. "I meant--I did try--tokeep my promise to come back the same day--I couldn't help it.Everything tried to prevent me, but I started meaning to come back; onlythe storm came on, and father wouldn't see me, and there seemed no endto the 'reaping,' and I was so tired; but father was quite right, youknow--and you were right too; only--oh! that isn't what I wanted to say;I can't--I can't remember the right words!"

  "Never mind," said Barnabas; and he drew her head on to his shoulder."Don't talk, little lass. Ye can tell me to-morrow. Bring me that soup,Cousin Tremnell. Take a pan o' coals and warm her bed. Eh, ye aresoaked!"

  He was feeding her as if she were a baby; and Meg was so utterlyexhausted that she let him do as he liked, with a sense of relief at notbeing expected even to lift her hand to her lips.

  But the soup revived her, and after a minute she sat upright and lookedround her.

  "An' where have ye been?" said Tom. He was dripping too, and had anotherlantern in his hand. He was more relieved than he cared to express tosee Barnabas' wife safe.

  "A pretty dance ye ha' led us," he cried. "An' what were ye doin'?" Butthe preacher saw the scared look come back to Meg's eyes, andinterposed.

  "Never mind," he said again. "It doesna matter! There is only one thingthat matters,--that ye've come home to me; ye've come home to me! Why,ye can hardly stand, lass!" seeing Meg make the attempt.

  "I have been running miles, I think, and my knees are shaking so," sheexplained. And Barnabas lifted her in his arms again, and carried herup.

  "Good-night!" said Tom good-naturedly, "or good-morning, which is it?Next time ye go in for these high jinks, Barnabas' wife, do 'ee choose afiner night! Oh well," stretching himself, "dad needn't ha' been afear'dlest Barnabas should be too rough on her!"