husband sitting, with his chin upon his breast and his hands folded upon his knee before the dead fire.  Then wrapping his cloak about her, she steals toward the outer door; but passing him she must needs pause at his back to staunch her tears a moment, and look down upon him for the last time.  The light shines in his brown hair, and she bending down till her lips touch a stray curl, they part silently, and she breathes upon him from her very soul, a mute “Fare thee well, dear love.”

But she will wait no longer, fearing her courage may give way, and the next minute she is out in the night, softly drawing the door to that separates these two for ever.

CHAPTER XXXII.

How we fought a most bloody battle with Simon, the constable, and others.

For some time we spoke never a word, Dawson and I,—­he with his head lying on his arm, I seated in a chair with my hands hanging down by my side, quite stunned by the blow that had fallen upon us.  At length, raising his head, his eyes puffed, and his face bedaubed with tears, he says: 

“Han’t you a word of comfort, Kit, for a broken-hearted man?”

I stammered a few words that had more sound than sense; but indeed I needed consolation myself, seeing my own responsibility for bringing this misfortune upon Moll, and being most heartily ashamed of my roguery now ’twas discovered.

“You don’t think he’ll be too hard on poor Moll, tell me that, Kit?”

“Aye, he’ll forgive her,” says I, “sooner than us, or we ourselves.”

“And you don’t think he’ll be for ever a-casting it in her teeth that her father’s a—­a drunken vagabond, eh?”

“Nay; I believe he is too good a man for that.”

“Then,” says he, standing up, “I’ll go and tell him the whole story, and you shall come with me to bear me out.”

“To-morrow will be time enough,” says I, flinching from this office; “’tis late now.”

“No matter for that.  Time enough to sleep when we’ve settled this business.  We’ll not leave poor Moll to bear all the punishment of our getting.  Mr. Godwin shall know what an innocent, simple child she was when we pushed her into this knavery, and how we dared not tell her of our purpose lest she should draw back.  He shall know how she was ever an obedient, docile, artless girl, yielding always to my guidance; and you can stretch a point, Kit, to say you have ever known me for a headstrong, masterful sort of a fellow, who would take denial from none, but must have my own way in all things.  I’ll take all the blame on my own shoulders, as I should have done at first, but I was so staggered by this fall.”

“Well,” says I, “if you will have it so—­”

“I will,” says he, stoutly.  “And now give me a bucket of water that I may souse my head, and wear a brave look.  I would have him think the worst of me that he may feel the kinder to poor Moll.  And I’ll make what atonement I can,” adds he, as I led him into my bed-chamber.  “If he desire it, I will promise never to see Moll again; nay, I will offer to take the king’s bounty, and go a-sailoring; and so, betwixt sickness and the Dutch, there’ll be an end of Jack Dawson in a very short space.”