“Not even if I wait patiently?  You couldn’t marry me, dear Chris?  You couldn’t get to love me?”

“I couldn’t marry you.  I’m a widow in heart for all time.  But I thank God for the gude-will of such a man as you.  I cherish it and ’t will be dear to me all my life.  But I caan’t come to ’e, so doan’t ax it.”

“Yet you’re young to live for a memory, Chris.”

“Better ’n nothing.  And listen; I’ll tell you this, if ’t will make my ‘No’ sound less hard to your ear.  I loves you—­I loves you better ’n any living man ‘cept Will, an’ not less than I love even him.  I wish I could bring ‘e a spark of joy by marryin’ you, for you was allus very gude, an’ thought kindly of Clem when but few did.  I’d marry you if ’t was awnly for that; yet it caan’t never be, along o’ many reasons.  You must take that cold comfort, Martin.”

He sighed, then spoke.

“So be it, dear one.  I shall never ask again.  God knows what holds you back if you can even love me a little.”

“Ess, God knaws—­everything.”

“I must not cry out against that.  Yet it makes it all the harder.  To think that you will dedicate all your beautiful life to a memory! it only makes my loss the greater, and shows the depths of you to me.”

She uttered a little scream and her cheek paled, and she put up her hands with the palms outward as though warding away his words.

“Doan’t ’e say things like that or give me any praise, for God’s sake.  I caan’t bear it.  I be weak, weak flesh an’ blood, weaker ’n water.  If you could only see down in my heart, you’d be cured of your silly love for all time.”

He did not answer, but picked up her basket and proceeded with her out of the valley.  Chris gave a hand to the child, and save for Tim’s prattle there was no speaking.

At length they reached Newtake, when Martin yielded up the basket and bade Chris “good-night.”  He had already turned, when she called him back in a strange voice.

“Kiss the li’l bwoy, will ’e?  I want ‘e to.  I’m that fond of un.  An’ he ’peared to take to ‘e; an’ he said ‘By-by’ twice to ’e, but you didn’t hear un.”

Then the man kissed Tim on a small, purple-stained mouth, and saw his eyes very lustrous with sleep, for the day was done.

Woman and child disappeared; the sacking nailed along the bottom of Newtake Gate to keep the young chicks in the farmyard rustled over the ground, and Martin, turning his face away, moved homewards.

But the veil was not lifted for him; he did not understand.  A secret, transparent enough to any who regarded Chris Blanchard and her circumstances from a point without the theatre of action, still remained concealed from all who loved her.

CHAPTER IV

THE END OF THE FIGHT

Will Blanchard was of the sort who fight a losing battle,

  “Still puffing in the dark at one poor coal,
   Held on by hope till the last spark is out.”