The Hundredth Chance

CHAPTER II
THE POISON PLANT

The wheels of the dog-cart clattered back over the stone paving of the yard, and a wild whoop of welcome echoed through the place. A small, boyish figure leapt impetuously to the ground to be caught and fast held in Maud's straining arms.

"Hullo, Maud! Hullo, Maud!" cried Bunny.

He hugged her none the less ardently, hugged and kissed her. They had not seen each other for three months.

Maud's greeting was quite inaudible; she could only hold him passionately close, feeling the abounding activity of his light young frame, and realizing with a great throb of rejoicing that the miracle had been wrought indeed. Bunny had been made whole.

"I say, isn't it fine?" the boy cried eagerly. "I've been doing gymnastics and physical exercises to any amount. I can swim too, and Dr. Capper says I may learn to ride. Jake's going to teach me, aren't you, Jake? Oh, isn't it fine, Maud? Isn't it fine?"

She held him a little from her, gazing at him fondly ere she gathered him close again. He was very slight and thin but he was taller than she had thought possible. The deep hollows about his eyes were far less marked than before, though his whole face bore that indelible stamp of suffering which had always made him older than his years.

He gave her another hearty hug. "I'm as fit as a fiddler," he declared. "But I still have to do four hours flat on the floor every day. I told Jake I wasn't going to do it any more, but he swears he'll tie me down to the table-legs if I don't. You're a sport, aren't you, Jake?"

He left his sister abruptly to attach himself to Jake whose threats of violence were plainly a huge attraction to his boyish mind.

Jake thrust an arm about the narrow shoulders. "We've got to make a man of you somehow, my son," he said. "And Capper is very emphatic about keeping up the treatment for another six weeks."

"Yes, and after that I'm going to school," said Bunny, with the assurance of a man who holds the ruling of his own destiny. "There's Fairhaven College up on the hill, Jake. That'll do for me. And I'll be a weekly boarder, and you'll take me to races on Saturdays."

But Jake shook his head. "Not at your time of life, young feller. No, when you go to school you'll stay there. You've got to make up for lost time. P'raps in the holidays we'll see. But I make no rash promises. Now, Mrs. Bolton, what about tea?"

They went within to the meal prepared in the sunny parlour with its door thrown open to the garden.

They sat at the table, Bunny alert, excited, radiant; Jake cheery and indulgent, bestowing his exclusive attention upon him; Maud, very quiet and reserved but watching the boy with eyes of shining affection that scarcely left him for a moment.

He had so much to tell them of this treatment and of that, how at the beginning of things he had found it so hard to bear, and how the doctors had helped him through.

"They were so awfully decent," he said. "There was one of 'em-Dr. Wyndham, who was no end of a swell. He used to come twice a week and put me through the most ghastly drill that rolled me out quite flat. He made me think of you, Jake. He was such a chap for getting his own way. Somehow I never could get ratty with him, though I used to dread the sight of him for ever so long. He soon got to know it, and he'd sit down by my side, and talk in a reassuring sort of way till he'd worked me up to it. He seemed to have no end of time to waste, and yet he was always ready; used to come in with his hands in his pockets and a funny smile on his face, and send the nurse packing because he knew I hated anyone looking on. I got to like him no end. You'd have liked him too, Maud. He was just our sort." And there he stopped suddenly, for the first time gazing fully at her. "Great Scott!" he said. "How queer you look!"

"I?" said Maud, slightly startled.

Bunny was looking at her hard. He turned abruptly to Jake. "Why does she lock like that? She hasn't been ill, has she?"

Jake's eyes went to his wife's face. He regarded her critically for a moment.

But before he could speak Maud hastily broke in. "Bunny! How absurd! Of course not! I am never ill. Jake, pass up his cup!"

He obeyed in silence, and she received it with a hand that trembled. Her face was burning.

"You look better now," said Bunny. "P'raps it's the heat. How do you amuse yourself nowadays? Is Saltash at the Castle?"

She shook her head. "No. He left on the same day that you did. I have scarcely seen him since."

"You have heard from him," said Jake, in the tone of one making a casual statement.

She was silent for a second or two while she poured out Bunny's tea; then, without lifting her eyes, "Yes," she said. "I have heard from him."

"Where is he?" asked Bunny. "Does he write often?"

"Not often," said Maud. She suddenly looked across at Jake with eyes that seemed to fling a challenge. "I expect you know where he is," she said.

"He is in town," said Jake.

He met her look with the utmost deliberation, and almost at once she looked away.

"I expect he'll be going to Scotland next month," said Bunny. "But I hope he'll come here first. I'd like to see him. Aren't there some big races at Graydown soon, Jake? Won't he come for them?"

"I can't say what he'll do," said Jake, pulling out his pipe. "The Burchester Cup will be run in a fortnight."

"Oh, Jake, old chap, do-do let me see that!" urged Bunny, with shining eyes. "Is the Mascot going to run again?"

"No, not the Mascot this time, – the Albatross. You remember him? Reckon he ought to carry it off if his jockey is good enough." Jake spoke with something of a frown.

Bunny was all eagerness. "The Albatross! Wasn't he the chap you were forcing into the water that day you first spoke to us? Yes, I remember him, of course-a beauty. Who's up, Jake? Isn't he any good?"

"I wanted Vickers to ride him," Jake said. "He's been training. But he has just broken his thumb, confound him. That leaves it to Dick Stevens, and I don't feel just sure of him. He may pull it off; but he's not like Sam Vickers. The animals haven't the same faith in him, – any more than I have."

He got up from the table as he spoke, and went to the mantelpiece for a match. Bunny gulped down his tea and sprang up also.

"Say, Jake, I'm coming round the Stables with you," he said. "I won't be in the way."

Jake, his clay pipe between his teeth, puffed forth a cloud of smoke, and turned. "Not to-night, my son. You've got another two hours' floor-drill before you. You go and do it!"

Bunny's face fell. "Oh, damn it, Jake! Not to-night!"

Jake's hand shot forth and grasped his shoulder. "Who taught you to say that?" he demanded.

Bunny stared. "I don't know. Lots of fellows say it. Charlie often does."

"I do myself," said Jake grimly. "But you're not to, savvy? I mean it. It ain't a mite clever, my son. It's beastly ugly. And you-you've got to be a gentleman if you do live under the roof of a bounder. Now you go and do as you're told, quick march! I shall know if you don't, and I shall know the reason why too. Take him upstairs, Maud; and if he don't behave himself, undress him and put him to bed!"

He would have gone with the words, but Bunny with a red face stayed him. "I'll do as you tell me, Jake," he said, "but I won't be managed by anyone else. And I'm not a bit afraid of you. See?"

Jake stopped, and the old kind smile that once had been so much more frequent lighted his face. "That's right, little pard; you've no call to be," he said. "But I won't have it said that you were brought up in a stable. And I won't have you hanging around with the boys in the yard either. Our language is not your language, and you're not to learn it. Now go and do your duty! I'll take you round the Stables to-morrow."

He bestowed a kindly pat upon Bunny's shoulder, and departed.

Bunny turned round to Maud. "What's the matter with him?" he said.

She sat with her face to the window, her eyes fixed unseeingly upon the sunlit garden. "Nothing that I know of," she said, without moving.

Bunny came to her side. "But, Maud, he isn't always like that, at least he used not to be."

"Like what?" she said.

Bunny was looking at her hard. "You used not to be like this either," he said. "What's happened to you both?"

She gave herself a sharp shake-it was almost like a shudder suppressed-and came out of her reverie. She met Bunny's questioning eyes with a smile.

"My dear boy, nothing has happened. Don't look so suspicious! There! Come and let me look at you! Do you know I hardly know you? You seem so young."

Bunny pushed an arm about her neck, and gave the kiss for which she yearned. "You look years older than you did," he said, with brotherly candour. "I thought you'd get on like a house on fire when you hadn't me to worry you, but you look more down in the mouth than ever."

"I shan't now I've got you," she whispered, clinging to him. "I've missed you-horribly, dear."

"I thought you would," said Bunny with complacence. "I missed you too at first. When they gave me that beastly massage, I used to howl for you."

"Was it so terribly bad?" she murmured, holding him faster.

"It was-unspeakable," said Bunny. "I shouldn't have stuck to it if you'd been there. As it was, – well, I couldn't help myself. But they were awfully kind too. No one ever pitched into me for behaving badly. They all seemed to take it for granted that I should. And when I began to get better, they were so jolly encouraging. But I'd rather be flogged every day for a year," ended Bunny, "than go through it all again."

"Dr. Capper didn't tell me it would be so bad," said Maud.

"No. Capper's a deep one. He didn't tell me either. He laughs about it now," said Bunny, "and says the end has fully justified the means. He's rather a card, but he's a fine chap. He is coming to see us before he leaves England. I made him promise. He'll be off before the end of August." Bunny stretched himself luxuriously. "How's the mother getting on?" he enquired.

"I haven't seen her for quite a long time. I believe she is very busy," Maud said. "They have discharged some of the servants at 'The Anchor.' I don't believe it answers. She was looking rather worried the last time we met. But she didn't tell me anything, except that times were bad."

"They always are with some people," said Bunny. "I suppose Jake is quite prosperous, is he?"

"Oh, quite, I think," she said in surprise. "Of course he is Charlie's paid man. Why do you ask?"

"He looks a bit bothered," said Bunny. "P'raps it isn't that though. Come along! Let's go upstairs!"

He twined his arm in hers. They went up side by side.

A little later they separated, and Maud went to her own room. Down in the training-field below the orchard a solitary horseman was riding a young, untamed animal that fought savagely against his mastery, striving by every conceivable artifice to unseat him. She paused at the casement window and watched the struggle, marked the man's calm assurance, his inflexible strength of purpose, his ruthless self-assertion. And, as she watched, that evil thing that she nourished in her heart opened its first poisonous flowers and bloomed in rank profusion. She hoped with a sickening intensity that the animal would win the day, and that Jake Bolton would be killed.

CHAPTER III
CONFIDENCES

Three days after Bunny's return, Maud drove him down in the dog-cart one afternoon to see their mother. She herself would not go into the Anchor Hotel. She had never entered it since that bitter day in the winter when she had thrown herself upon Jake's protection, nor had she exchanged a single word with her step-father since her wedding-day.

Her mother seemed to have grown completely away from them, and would seldom be persuaded to visit her daughter even though Jake himself offered to fetch her. She had become fretful and irritable, and was in a certain measure vexed with Maud who had not apparently made the most of her opportunities. There was no denying the fact that they were drifting further and further apart, and to neither of them did the other's presence afford the smallest pleasure. Now that Lord Saltash had quitted the scene, Mrs. Sheppard took no further interest in her daughter's doings. She strongly suspected that it was in response to Maud's insistence that he had gone, and she was inclined to regard his absence as a personal grievance against her in consequence. Emphatically, Mrs. Sheppard was not improved by adversity. Her looks were fading, and her placid temperament had vanished. Giles was such a trial, life was so difficult. She had always acted for the best, but she never reaped any benefit therefrom. In fact, Fate had never been kind to her, and she was beginning to cherish a grudge in consequence.

Bunny was by no means anxious to pay her a visit; it was only by Jake's commands that he went. Maud was a little surprised to find that he was developing a scrupulous regard for Jake's wishes. She drove the dog-cart into the stable-yard of "The Anchor" and left it there with a promise to return for him in an hour. Then she herself wandered down to the shore to pass the time.

The day was sultry with a brooding heat. The sea lay wrapped in mist like a steaming sheet of molten lead. There was no sound of waves; only now and then the wailing cry of a sea-gull floated across the water, and sometimes there throbbed upon the heavy air the paddle of an unseen steamer beating through that silent waste of greyness.

She had no sunshade, and the glare was intense, albeit the sun was veiled. Half-mechanically she turned her steps towards the shelter in which-how long ago! – Jake had made his astounding proposal of marriage. She felt miserable, depressed, sick at heart. The close weather did not agree with her. She was limp and listless, and she could neither eat nor sleep.

She dropped wearily down upon the seat and leaned back with her eyes half-closed. Her head was aching dully, as if a heavy weight pressed upon it.

There was no one in sight. That end of the parade was little frequented. The gay crowd preferred the vicinity of the bathing-machines where a little troupe of Pierrots were making merry. Now and then the raucous voice of the funny man of the party reached her, but it was too far away to disturb her. She was thankful for the attraction that kept the people away.

Chops lay at her feet, snapping at the flies, grave, sympathetic, watchful. He was feeling the heat too, but he took it philosophically, with the wisdom of experience. He knew better than to chafe at the inevitable.

Half-an-hour crawled away thus in dumb oppression while the atmosphere grew imperceptibly thicker, gradually extinguishing the sun-rays, darkening the world. At length a long ridge rose with ghostly suddenness on that flat desert of waters and swept shorewards, bursting upon the beach with a startling roar.

Maud started and opened her eyes. In a moment she was on her feet, dismayed, irresolute. One glance at the ominous sky and sullen, glassy water told her that a storm was imminent. She could not stay in that exposed place. She would not contemplate taking refuge at "The Anchor." Whither could she go?

She began to walk swiftly along the parade, Chops pacing sedately behind. The Pierrots were gone, the crowd scattered. She was sure that in a few moments there would be a terrific downpour.

Another long swell showed like the back of a swift-moving monster on the face of the waters. It travelled landwards with incredible rapidity; it burst in thunder just below her. A great swirl of surf rushed up to the wall and receded to rejoin the inky water. And suddenly the blast of the storm caught her.

Almost before she realized it, she was fleeing before it down the deserted road. Eddies of dust rose up under her feet, and sand whipped up from the beach stung her face. She raced the tempest, making for the nearest side-road to escape the unbroken fury with which it raged along the shore.

As she tore across to the sheltering houses there came a blinding flash of lightning, and instantly overhead a splitting explosion that seemed to shatter the whole world. For a second or two she was checked in her wild career. She felt stunned. Then in a sweeping torrent the rain was upon her, and she stumbled towards the nearest doorway.

Before she reached it, however, a voice called to her, a stout figure came running forth with amazing lightness, and two plump hands seized one of hers.

"Come in, my dear, come in!" panted a wheezy voice. "Why, whatever brought you out in such a storm? You look scared to death. Come and sit down in my back parlour behind the shop! It's all right, dearie, all right. Don't be upset!"

Gasping and unnerved, Maud tottered into the little shop, groping, clinging to her guide. The gloom without made almost impenetrable darkness within. She had not the faintest idea as to whither she was being led. But there was no hesitation about her companion. She pressed her forward till a glimmer of light revealed a window in a dingy little room beyond the shop, and here she deposited her with friendly firmness upon a horse-hair sofa, making her lean against a cushion sewn with beads while she recovered her breath.

"Don't you be frightened any more, my dear!" she admonished her. "You're quite safe. Trust the dear Lord for that! The wind and storm are only fulfilling His Will. Poor child, you're all of a tremble! There, let's take your hat off! And I'll get you a cup of tea, dear. You'll be better then."

Tenderly she removed the hat while Maud, panting and spent, lay limply against the cushion. Chops sat pressed against her, his silken head on her knee.

"Why, look at him! It's just as if he's trying to tell you not to take on," said her rescuer. "There's a deal of soul in a dog, I always say. Now you know who I am, Mrs. Bolton, my dear, don't you? You don't feel as if you're taking shelter with a stranger?"

"You are-Mrs. Wright," Maud said, speaking with an effort.

"That's right, my dear. I felt sure you'd remember me. Now will you be quite comfortable if I run into the kitchen and make the tea? Or will you come along with me? I often think company is a good thing in a storm."

Maud was recovering herself. She sat up with something of her usual quiet demeanour, though her heart was still beating unpleasantly fast. "Please don't trouble to get any tea for me!" she said. "If I may stay till the worst is over, I shall be very grateful. But I must go directly it gets better. My brother is waiting for me at 'The Anchor.'"

Another terrible flash pierced the gloom, and she shrank involuntarily, one hand covering her face while the thunder crashed above them with a force that shook the house.

As the dreadful echoes died away, she awoke to the fact that Mrs. Wright was kneeling stoutly beside her, one kindly arm pressing her close.

"It's all right, darling. Don't shiver so!" she murmured maternally. "We're quite safe in the Lord's good keeping. He won't let us be harmed if we trust in Him."

Maud made a slight gesture as though she would withdraw herself, and then the comfort of that motherly arm overcame her shyness. Very suddenly she let herself go into the old woman's embrace. She hid her face on the ample shoulder.

"I'm not really frightened," she whispered piteously. "But oh, I'm so tired-I'm so tired!"

"Poor lamb!" said Mrs. Wright compassionately.'

She gathered her to her bosom rocking her softly in her arms as one who soothes a hurt child, and whispering endearing words from time to time, while Maud, spent and weary, wept silently there till with the shedding of tears some measure of relief came to her aching soul.

She forgot the storm that raged around them; she forgot that Mrs. Wright was a comparative stranger to her; she forgot the passage of time and all besides in the blessed consciousness of another woman's sympathy compassing her round, sustaining, comprehending, lifting her up from the depths of despair into which she had lately sunk so low.

"There then! There! You're better now," murmured Mrs. Wright at last. "Would you like to talk a bit, darling? Or shall we just pretend as there's nothing to talk about?"

h But Maud was clinging to her, as a drowning person clings to a spar. "You're very good to me," she whispered tremulously.

It was enough for Mrs. Wright. She proceeded with boldness. "It didn't become me to take the first step, dearie, you being a lady like you are, and me only a clumsy old woman. But I've had troubles myself, and I'm not blind. You aren't well, dear; you aren't happy. I was afraid that day in the winter, and I've been much more afraid since. I was wanting to step up and see you again; but then I wasn't sure as you 'd want me. But I've thought of you often and often, and poor Jake too."

Maud shivered. "Life is horrible-horrible!" she said, and there was a quiver of passion in the words.

"Ah, dear!" Mrs. Wright held her closer. "Maybe that's because you're not taking things just as you should. No, I don't suppose as it's your fault. I wouldn't presume. But there's ways and ways of looking at things. And sometimes, when a girl is hurried into marrying, like you were, she's likely to be a bit taken aback when she comes to realize what it means. And it is then maybe that she gets a wrong impression of men and their ways which is like to interfere with all happiness. But, you know, dearie, men are only a pack of children. Any woman can manage a man if she puts her mind to it, and he'll like her the better for it too. But if once a man gets the whip-hand, and knows it, that's fatal. A spoilt child soon becomes a tyrant."

"Jake is no child!" Low and bitter the words came; Maud's face was buried deep in her new friend's shoulder. "He is nothing but-a brute!"

"Lord love me!" ejaculated Mrs. Wright. And then very tenderly her hand began to smooth the girl's tumbled hair. "Has he been-that-to you?" she said. "Ah, dear, dear, dear! And what's going to happen, I wonder, when he knows what you're going to give him? No, don't shrink, darling! There's nothing to be ashamed of. Would you be ashamed if God sent an angel to lay a baby in your arms? For it's just that, darling. It is His gift. Aren't you going to thank Him for it? The first is so much the most wonderful. Think, dear, think of the little wee thing that will cling to you, cry to you, depend on only you!"

Maud was shivering violently. She did not lift her head or speak.

Mrs. Wright's hand did not cease to caress and soothe. "I am right, dear, am I?" she asked softly.

And Maud's silence answered her.

Thereafter there came an interval during which the loud patter of the rain was the only sound. Maud's tears had ceased. She sat bowed upon the old woman's breast as though she lacked the strength to lift herself.

But presently, without moving, she spoke. "I suppose I am very wicked; but I don't feel like-that about it. I can't. I don't want it. You'll be dreadfully shocked, I'm afraid. I've never spoken my mind to anyone before. But-the fact is-I've never felt really married to Jake. I don't in my heart belong to him. And that makes everything wrong."

"My dear! My dear!" said Mrs. Wright. "But he is your husband all the same. And you-you are the one woman in the world to him. He loves you as his own soul."

Maud shook her head hopelessly. "Oh no, indeed he doesn't! He doesn't know the meaning of the word. If he did-things would be very different."

"Dear heart, that's just where you go wrong-the beginning and end of the whole trouble," declared Mrs. Wright. "I knew he loved you that night last year at your mother's wedding-party. Why, it was shining in his eyes for all to see. Was he such a dunderhead then that he never told you so?"

But at that Maud raised herself. She met the old woman's eyes in the gloom, her own heavy with bitterness.

"Mrs. Wright, that was not love," she said, "or anything approaching to love." She paused a moment, as though the tragic words had cost her all her strength; then piteously she ended, "He told me he had a fancy for me; that was all. So for Bunny's sake-and partly for my own-I married him. And now I am the slave of that fancy."

"Oh dear, dear, dear!" Mrs. Wright said again. "And has he never made love to you at all? What a silly fellow, to be sure! Men don't know anything; upon my word, they don't!"

"I didn't like his methods of making love." Maud spoke with growing bitterness. "And I never suffered them. Oh yes, I have to endure them now. He takes whatever he wants. But every spark of affection or respect that I ever had for him went out one night in the winter when he came home the worse for drink."

"Sakes alive!" exclaimed Mrs. Wright. "Not Jake!"

"Yes, Jake." Maud spoke with tragic vehemence. "I saw him, and so did Charlie. We both knew it."

"Who is Charlie?" questioned Mrs. Wright.

A faint tinge of colour rose in the girl's pale face. "Lord Saltash. He is an old family friend of ours. He was always Charlie Burchester to us in the old days."

"And he told you Jake was drunk?" demanded Mrs. Wright, with round, indignant eyes.

Maud made a gesture of weary indifference. "He didn't actually tell me so. I think he didn't want me to know. But he couldn't deny it when I put it to him."

"Then, my dear, he was very grievously mistaken," declared Mrs. Wright, with stout emphasis. "Jake was not drunk. He never drinks. Why, look at the man! His eyes are as clear as the day. Oh, believe me, dear, you've wronged him. You've wronged him cruelly. And that's maybe what's brought about all your trouble. For men can't put up with injustice. It's the one thing they can't abide, and I don't blame 'em."

She paused. Maud was listening, but not as one convinced, or even greatly interested.

"It doesn't really alter anything, whether it's true or not," she said. "I had begun even before that to know what sort of a man he was. I heard him using the most appalling language one day. That opened my eyes."

"Not to you, dear, surely?" urged Mrs. Wright, looking momentarily shocked.

"Oh no, not to me. I overheard it accidentally. But," Maud shivered again, "I've never forgotten it. Sometimes the memory of it turns me nearly sick!"

"Oh, dearie me! What a pity! What a pity! And he loving you so!" Mrs. Wright put up a very tender hand, and stroked her cheek. "Poor little hurt princess!" she said. "If I could but open your eyes and show you how much true love there is behind his roughness! You'll see it some day. I'm sure of that. Please God some day quite soon! You're tired and heart-sick now, dear. But that'll get better as time goes on. And if you'll take an old woman's advice, you'll tell him soon of the little one that's coming. It'll maybe make all the difference to you both."

But Maud drew back sharply at the bare suggestion. "I couldn't possibly tell him yet. I-I couldn't tell anyone."

Mrs. Wright looked at her with eyes of motherly wisdom. "You'll feel different-presently," she said. "I know, dear, I know."

"You don't know! You can't know!" Maud's voice was strangled. She seemed to be striving for self-control.

"I do know." Very firmly Mrs. Wright made the assertion. "Just you listen a minute, dearie, and I'll tell you something that I've never told to mortal being before. I'm only just an ordinary old woman; but I am a woman, and I know what it means to-love the wrong man." She spoke impressively, but she did not seem to notice Maud's quick start. "When I was a girl, I was something of a belle. It seems funny now, don't it? But I attracted the attention of a good many young men, and I got a bit uppish in consequence. My poor Tom was the best of the bunch, and I always knew it, though I led him a fine dance before we came to walking out together. And then a young doctor's assistant came to the place, and-well, I'll not deny it now-we was both young and a bit flighty. We got larking together on them roundabouts one night at a fair, and after that we took to meeting one another on the sly, till, to cut it short, I fell in love with him-very badly in love. I ought to have known better, of course, for gentlemen like him don't marry little farmers' daughters like me. But I was young and inexperienced, and I thought his intentions were honest, till one night I found as they weren't. I've never ceased to thank the Almighty that I had the strength to send him about his business then and there. And I got engaged to Tom the following Sunday, and tried to forget it all. I wasn't in love with him, but I knew he was a good sort; and the match pleased my people who weren't too well-to-do. Well, I thought I was going to be happy in a home of my own, and I let everything be arranged, and I deceived myself into thinking that it was going to be all right. And then-when the wedding was over-I felt, quite sudden-like, sick, just sick, to think what I'd done. I didn't let on to Tom. He was such a good, solid man. I'd have died of shame if I had. I didn't let on to anybody. But I was that miserable. There were times, on and off, when I almost hated him. And then-well, then-I began to have hopes. It didn't help me a bit at first, but gradually, very gradually, the thought of poor Tom's baby purified me. And when I'd come through my trouble and little Tom was born, I felt as if I had been born again too, and all my regrets were gone. I never had 'em any more, dear, after that. And I got that fond of poor Tom, he never guessed. I thank the Almighty he didn't, for the morning as he died he told me so simple-like that I'd been the sunshine of his life from the very first day he ever met me." Mrs. Wright paused to wipe her eyes. "Poor Tom! I was never good enough for him," she said. "He was such a good, kind soul, and-luckily for me-he never saw an inch beyond his nose."

She got up with the words, dismissing the subject with practical common sense.

"Now I'm going to get you some tea, dear, and by that time it'll have left off raining. See! It's getting lighter already. I'm so glad you came this way. Maybe, you'll come again now, and if there's ever anything I can do, why, you've only to let me know, and it's as good as done."