Deborah followed him into the inner room.  She carried a candle, which she placed on the floor, dosing the door after her.  She had seen the look on his face, as he turned away:  her own grew deadly.  Yet, as she came up to him, her eyes glowed.  He was seated on an old chest, quiet, holding his face in his hands.

“Hugh!” she said, softly.

He did not speak.

“Hugh, did hur hear what the man said,—­him with the clear voice?  Did hur hear?  Money, money,—­that it wud do all?”

He pushed her away,—­gently, but he was worn out; her rasping tone fretted him.

“Hugh!”

The candle flared a pale yellow light over the cobwebbed brick walls, and the woman standing there.  He looked at her.  She was young, in deadly earnest; her faded eyes, and wet, ragged figure caught from their frantic eagerness a power akin to beauty.

“Hugh, it is true!  Money ull do it!  Oh, Hugh, boy, listen till me!  He said it true!  It is money!”

“I know.  Go back!  I do not want you here.”

“Hugh, it is t’ last time.  I ’II never worrit hur again.”

There were tears in her voice now, but she choked them back.

“Hear till me only to-night!  If one of t’ witch people wud come, them we heard of t’ home, and gif hur all hur wants, what then?  Say, Hugh!”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean money.”.

Her whisper shrilled through his brain.

“If one of t’ witch dwarfs wud come from t’ lane moors to-night, and gif hur money, to go out,—­out, I say,—­out, lad, where t’ sun shines, and t’ heath grows, and t’ ladies walk in silken gownds, and God stays all t’ time,—­where t’ man lives that talked to us to-night,—­Hugh knows, —­Hugh could walk there like a king!”

He thought the woman mad, tried to check her, but she went on, fierce in her eager haste.

“If I were t’ witch dwarf, if I had f money, wud hur thank me?  Wud hur take me out o’ this place wid hur and Janey?  I wud not come into the gran’ house hur wud build, to vex hur wid t’ hunch,—­only at night, when t’ shadows were dark, stand far off to see hur.”

Mad?  Yes!  Are many of us mad in this way?

“Poor Deb! poor Deb!” he said, soothingly.

“It is here,” she said, suddenly jerking into his hand a small roll.  “I took it!  I did it!  Me, me!—­not hur!  I shall be hanged, I shall be burnt in hell, if anybody knows I took it!  Out of his pocket, as he leaned against t’ bricks.  Hur knows?”

She thrust it into his hand, and then, her errand done, began to gather chips together to make a fire, choking down hysteric sobs.

“Has it come to this?”

That was all he said.  The Welsh Wolfe blood was honest.  The roll was a small green pocket-book containing one or two gold pieces, and a check for an incredible amount, as it seemed to the poor puddler.  He laid it down, hiding his face again in his hands.