’I darn’t come in.  The old un’s gone down, and locked the cross-door, and left me to watch.  They think I care nout about ye, no more nor themselves.  I donna know all, but summat more nor her.  They tell her nout, she’s so gi’n to drink; they say she’s not safe, an’ awful quarrelsome.  I hear a deal when fayther and Master Dudley be a-talkin’ in the mill.  They think, comin’ in an’ out, I don’t mind; but I put one think an’ t’other together.  An’ don’t ye eat nor drink nout here, Miss; hide away this; it’s black enough, but wholesome anyhow!’ and she slipt a piece of a coarse loaf from under her apron. ’Hide it mind.  Drink nout but the water in the jug there—­it’s clean spring.’

‘Oh, Meg!  Oh, Meg!  I know what you mean,’ said I, faintly.

‘Ay, Miss, I’m feared they’ll try it; they’ll try to make away wi’ ye somehow.  I’m goin’ to your friends arter dark; I darn’t try it no sooner.  I’ll git awa to Ellerston, to your lady-cousin, and I’ll bring ’em back wi’ me in a rin; so keep a good hairt, lass.  Meg Hawkes will stan’ to ye.  Ye were better to me than fayther and mother, and a’;’ and she clasped me round the waist, and buried her head in my dress; ’an I’ll gie my life for ye, darling, and if they hurt ye I’ll kill myself.’

She recovered her sterner mood quickly—­

‘Not a word, lass,’ she said, in her old tone.  ’Don’t ye try to git away—­they’ll kill ye—­ye can’t do’t.  Leave a’ to me.  It won’t be, whatever it is, till two or three o’clock in the morning.  I’ll ha’e them a’ here long afore; so keep a brave heart—­there’s a darling.’

I suppose she heard, or fancied she heard, a step approaching, for she said—­

‘Hish!’

Her pale wild face vanished, the door shut quickly and softly, and the key turned again in the lock.

Meg, in her rude way, had spoken softly—­almost under her breath; but no prophecy shrieked by the Pythoness ever thundered so madly in the ears of the hearer.  I dare say that Meg fancied I was marvellously little moved by her words.  I felt my gaze grow intense, and my flesh and bones literally freeze.  She did not know that every word she spoke seemed to burst like a blaze in my brain.  She had delivered her frightful warning, and told her story coarsely and bluntly, which, in effect, means distinctly and concisely; and, I dare say, the announcement so made, like a quick bold incision in surgery, was more tolerable than the slow imperfect mangling, which falters and recedes and equivocates with torture.  Madame was long away.  I sat down at the window, and tried to appreciate my dreadful situation.  I was stupid—­the imagery was all frightful; but I beheld it as we sometimes see horrors—­heads cut off and houses burnt—­in a dream, and without the corresponding emotions.  It did not seem as if all this were really happening to me.  I remember sitting at the window, and looking and blinking at the opposite side of the building, like a person unable but striving to see an object distinctly, and every minute pressing my hand to the side of my head and saying—­