astonishing abundance.  Willoughby saw the dry earth turn dark and moist as it drank the tears in.  This, his first experience of Esther’s powers of weeping, distressed him horribly; never in his life before had he seen anyone weep like that, he should not have believed such a thing possible; he was alarmed, too, lest she should be noticed from the house.  He opened the gate; ‘Esther!’ he begged, ’don’t cry.  Come out here, like a dear girl, and let us talk sensibly.’

Because she stumbled, unable to see her way through wet eyes, he gave her his hand, and they found themselves in a field of corn, walking along the narrow grass-path that skirted it, in the shadow of the hedgerow.

‘What is there to cry about because you have not seen me for two days?’ he began; ’why, Esther, we are only strangers, after all.  When we have been at home a week or two we shall scarcely remember each other’s names.’

Esther sobbed at intervals, but her tears had ceased.  ’It’s fine for you to talk of home,’ she said to this.  ’You’ve got something that is a home, I s’pose?  But me! my home’s like hell, with nothing but quarrellin’ and cursin’, and a father who beats us whether sober or drunk.  Yes!’ she repeated shrewdly, seeing the lively disgust on Willoughby’s face, ‘he beat me, all ill as I was, jus’ before I come away.  I could show you the bruises on my arms still.  And now to go back there after knowin’ you!  It’ll be worse than ever.  I can’t endure it, and I won’t!  I’ll put an end to it or myself somehow, I swear!’

‘But my poor Esther, how can I help it? what can I do?’ said Willoughby.  He was greatly moved, full of wrath with her father, with all the world which makes women suffer.  He had suffered himself at the hands of a woman and severely, but this, instead of hardening his heart, had only rendered it the more supple.  And yet he had a vivid perception of the peril in which he stood.  An interior voice urged him to break away, to seek safety in flight even at the cost of appearing cruel or ridiculous; so, coming to a point in the field where an elm-hole jutted out across the path, he saw with relief he could now withdraw his hand from the girl’s, since they must walk singly to skirt round it.

Esther took a step in advance, stopped and suddenly turned to face him; she held out her two hands and her face was very near his own.

‘Don’t you care for me one little bit?’ she said wistfully, and surely sudden madness fell upon him.  For he kissed her again, he kissed her many times, he took her in his arms, and pushed all thoughts of the consequences far from him.

But when, an hour later, he and Esther stood by the last gate on the road to Orton, some of these consequences were already calling loudly to him.

‘You know I have only L130 a year?’ he told her; ’it’s no very brilliant prospect for you to marry me on that.’

For he had actually offered her marriage, although to the mediocre man such a proceeding must appear incredible, uncalled for.  But to Willoughby, overwhelmed with sadness and remorse, it seemed the only atonement possible.