In a little while Matt’s mother came downstairs with hopelessness written on every line of her hard face.

‘Thaa’ll hev to mak’ up thi mind to say good-bye to Miriam, lad.  Hoo’s noan baan to howd aat much longer.  Hoo’s abaat done, poor lass!’

‘Yo’ mornd talk like that to me, mother, or I’ll put yo’ aat o’ the haase.  I’m noan baan to say good-bye to Merry yet, by ——­ I’ ammot!’

’Well, lad, thaa’s no need to be either unnatural nor blasphemous o’er th’ job.  What He wills, He wills, thaa knows; and if thaa willn’t bend, thaa mun break.’

’But I’ll do noather, mother.  Miriam’s noan baan to dee yet, I con tell yo’.’

Just then Dr. Hale descended from the chamber, and beckoning Matt, whispered in his ear that he deemed it right to tell him that he feared the worst would overtake his wife, and that she would like to see him.

The words came to Matt as the first great blow of his life.  True, he had anticipated the worst; but now that it came it was tenfold more severe than his anticipation.  Looking at Dr. Hale with eyes too dry for tears, he said: 

‘Aw connot see her, doctor; aw connot see her.  Yo’ an’ th’ women mun do yor best; and don’t forget to ax the Almighty to help yo’.’  And so saying, Matt went out in despair into the wild November day.

As he rushed into the raw air the wind dashed the rain in his face as though to beat him back within his cottage home.  Heedless of these, however, he pressed forward, wild with grief, seeking to lose his own madness amid the whirl and confusion of the storm.  Low-lying, angry clouds seethed round the summits of the distant hills, and mists, like shrouds, hung over the drear and leafless cloughs.  The moorland grasses lay beaten and colourless—­great swamps—­reservoirs where lodged the moisture of a long autumn’s rain, while the roads were limp and sodden, and heavy for the wayfarer’s foot.  But Matt was heedless of these; and striking a drift path that crossed the hills, he followed its trend.  Along it he walked—­nay, raced rather, like a man pursued.  And pursued he was; for he sought in vain to escape the passions that preyed on him, tormenting him.  Sorrow, anguish, death; these were at his heels; and, worse than all, he thought his dying wife was following him, pleading for his return.  Why had he forsaken her?  Was it not cowardice—­the cowardice and selfishness of his grief?  Once or twice a fascination took hold of him, and, despite the terror that awed him, he threw a glance over his shoulder to see if after all he were pursued by the shadow he so much feared to meet.  Then the wind began to utter strange sounds—­wailings and lamentations—­its burden being a wild entreaty to return; and once he thought he heard an infant’s cry, and he paused in his despair.

A steep and rugged path lay before him—­a path that led under trees whose swaying branches flung off raindrops in blinding showers, and a gleam of light shot shaft-like from a rift in the sombre clouds, and falling across his feet, led him to wonder how heaven could shed a fitful smile on sorrow like his own.