As to Mrs. Acton, she, poor woman, had her own thoughts, fearful ones, about that shawl, and Ben’s mysterious adventure.  No cloudy love of mammon had overspread her mind, to hide from it the hideousness of murder; in her eyes, blood was terrible, and not the less so that it covered gold.  She remembered at the inquest—­be sure she was there among the gossips—­the facts, so little taken notice of till now, the keys in the cupboard, where the honey-pots were not, and how Jonathan Floyd had seen something on the lake, and the marks of a man’s hand on the throat; and, God forgive her for saying so, but Mr. Jennings was a little, white-faced man.  How wrong was it of Roger to have burnt that shawl! how dull of Ben not to have suspected something! but then the good fellow suspects nobody, and, I dare say, now doesn’t know my thoughts.  But Roger does, more shame for him; or why burn the shawl?  Ah! thought she, with all the gossip rampart in her breast, if I could only have taken it to the Hall myself, what a stir I should have caused!  Yes, she would have reaped a mighty field of glory by originating such a whirlwind of inquiries and surmises.  Even now, so attractive was the mare’s nest, she would go to the Hall by morning, and tell Sir John himself all about the burnt shawl, and Pike Island, and the galli—­And so she fell fast asleep.

With respect to Ben, Tom, and Rover, a well-matched triad, as any Isis, Horus, and Nepthys, they all flung themselves promiscuously on the hard floor beside the hearth, “basked at the fire their hairy strength,” and soon were snoring away beautifully in concert, base, tenor, and treble, like a leash of glee-singers.  No thoughts troubled them, either of mammon or murder:  so long before the meditative trio up-stairs, they had set a good example, and fallen asleep.

CHAPTER XII.

Love.

With the earliest peep of day arose sweet Grace, full of cheerful hope, and prayer, and happy resignation.  She had a great deal to do that morning; for, innocent girl, she had no notion that it was quite possible to be too early at the Hall; her only fear was being too late.  Then there were all the household cares to see to, and the dear babes to dress, and the place to tidy up, and breakfast to get ready, and, any how, she could not be abroad till half-past eight:  so, to her dismay, it must be past nine before ever she can see Sir John.  Let us follow her a little:  for on this important day we shall have to take the adventures of our labourer’s family one at a time.

By twenty minutes to nine, Grace had contrived to bustle on her things, give the rest the slip, and be tripping to the Hall.  It is nearly two miles off, as we already know; and Grace is such a pretty creature that we can clearly do no better than employ our time thitherward by taking a peep at her.