But she paused.  Nelly, writing a letter, was not apparently concerned with anything Bridget had been saying.  It did not seem to have reached her ears.  A queer terror shot through Bridget.  But she dismissed it.  As if Nelly could ever really get on without her.  Little, feckless, sentimental thing!

Nelly finished her letter and put it up.

’I have written to Sir William’s agent, Bridget’—­she said turning towards her sister—­’to say that I give up the farm.  I shall pay the servant.  Hester will look after my things, and send them—­when I want them.’

‘Why Hester?’ said Bridget, with something of a sneer.

Nelly did not answer.  She put up her letter, took the money and the cheque-book and went out of the room.  Bridget heard her call their one servant, Mrs. Dowson, and presently steps ascended the stairs and Nelly’s door shut.  The sound of the shutting door roused in her again that avenging terror.  Her first impulse was to go and force herself into Nelly’s room, so as to manage and pack for her as usual.  But something stopped her.  She consoled herself by going down to the kitchen to look after the supper.  Nelly, of course, must have some food before her night journey.

Behind that shut door, Nelly was looking into the kind weather-beaten face of Mrs. Dowson.

’Mrs. Dowson, I’m going away to-night—­and I’m not coming back.  Sir William knows.’

Then she caught the woman’s gnarled hands, and her own features began to work.

’Mrs. Dowson, they’ve found my husband!  Did Sir William tell you?  He’s not dead—­he’s alive—­But he’s very, very ill.’

‘Oh, you poor lamb!’ cried Mrs. Dowson.  ’No—­Sir William tellt me nowt.  The Lord be gracious to you!’ Bathed in sudden tears, she kissed one of the hands that held hers, pouring out incoherent words of hope.  But Nelly did not cry, and presently she said firmly—­

’Now, please, you must help me to pack.  Sir William will be here at nine.’

Presently all was ready.  Nelly had hunted out an old grey travelling dress in which George had often seen her, and a grey hat with a veil.  She hastily put all her black clothes aside.

’Miss Martin will send me anything I want.  I have asked her to come and fetch my things.’

‘But Miss Cookson will be seein’ to that!’ said Mrs. Dowson wondering.  Nelly made no reply.  She locked her little box, and then stood upright, looking round the small room.  She seemed to be saying ‘Good-bye’ for ever to the Nelly who had lived, and dreamed, and prayed there.  She was going to George—­that was all she knew.

Downstairs, Bridget was standing at the door of the little dining-room.  ‘I have put out some cold meat for you,’ she said, stiffly.  ’You won’t get anything for a long time.’

Nelly acquiesced.  She drank some tea, and ate as much as she could.  Neither she nor Bridget spoke, till Bridget, who was at the window looking out into the snow, turned round to say—­’Here’s the motor.’