dreamed of giving up the fugitive.  She sat all day in her chair, wishing that the day were over, praying that she might be spared any further suffering or that at least it might be spared to her child whom she so loved.  She had sent Nellie down to the vicarage with Martha.  Mrs. Ambrose loved Nellie better than she loved Nellie’s mother, and there was a standing invitation for her to spend the afternoons at the vicarage.  Nellie said her mother had a terrible headache and wanted to be alone.

But when the squire came Mrs. Goddard thought it wiser to see him.  She had, of course, no intention of confiding to him an account of the events of the previous night, but she felt that if she could talk to him for half an hour she would be stronger.  He was himself so strong and honest that he inspired her with courage.  She knew, also, that if she were driven to the extremity of confiding in any one she would choose Mr. Juxon rather than Mr. Ambrose.  The vicar had been her first friend and she owed him much; but the squire had won her confidence by his noble generosity after she had told him her story.  She said to herself that he was more of a man than the vicar.  And now he had come to her at the time of her greatest distress, and she was glad to see him.

Mr. Juxon entered the room softly, feeling that he was in the presence of a sick person.  Mrs. Goddard turned her pathetic face towards him and held out her hand.

“I am so glad to see you,” she said, trying to seem cheerful.

“I fear you are ill, Mrs. Goddard,” answered the squire, looking at her anxiously and then seating himself by her side.  “Martha told me you had a headache—­I hope it is not serious.”

“Oh no—­not serious.  Only a headache,” she said with a smile so unlike her own that Mr. Juxon began to feel nervous.  His resolution to tell her his errand began to waver; it seemed cruel, he thought, to disturb a person who was evidently so ill with a matter so serious.  He remembered that she had almost fainted on a previous occasion when she had spoken to him of her husband.  She had not been ill then; there was no knowing what the effect of a shock to her nerves might be at present.  He sat still in silence for some moments, twisting his hat upon his knee.

“Do not be disturbed about me,” said Mrs. Goddard presently.  “It will pass very quickly.  I shall be quite well to-morrow—­I hope,” she added with a shudder.

“I am very much disturbed about you,” returned Mr. Juxon in an unusually grave tone.  Mrs. Goddard looked at him quickly, and was surprised when she saw the expression on his face.  He looked sad, and at the same time perplexed.

“Oh, pray don’t be!” she exclaimed as though deprecating further remark upon her ill health.

“I wish I knew,” said the squire with some hesitation, “whether—­whether you are really very ill.  I mean, of course, I know you have a bad headache, a very bad headache, as I can see.  But—­indeed, Mrs. Goddard, I have something of importance to say.”