His eyes, travelling to the spot from which the bayonet had been removed, rested on the print of the Nativity. “’Suffer little children to come unto Me,’” he thought, “’and forbid them not.”  He’ll be glad to hear there was two carriages followed him home.’

And, taking his time, he cleared his throat in preparation for speech.  But before the singular muteness of this family sounds would not come.  Finishing his tea, he tremblingly arose.  Things that he might have said jostled in his mind.  ’Very pleased to ’a seen you.  Hope you’re in good health at the present time of speaking.  Don’t let me intrude on you.  We’ve all a-got to die some time or other!’ They remained unuttered.  Making a vague movement of his skinny hand, he walked feebly but quickly to the door.  When he stood but half-way within the room, he made his final effort.

“I’m not a-goin’ to say nothing,” he said; “that’d be superlative!  I wish you a good-morning.”

Outside he waited a second, then grasped the banister.

‘For all he sets so quiet, they’ve done him no good in that place,’ he thought.  ‘Them eyes of his!’ And slowly he descended, full of a sort of very deep surprise.  ‘I misjudged of him,’ he was thinking; ’he never was nothing but a ’armless human being.  We all has our predijuices—­I misjudged of him.  They’ve broke his ’eart between ’em—­that they have.’

The silence in the room continued after his departure.  But when the little boy had gone to school, Hughs rose and lay down on the bed.  He rested there, unmoving, with his face towards the wall, his arms clasped round his head to comfort it.  The seamstress, stealing about her avocations, paused now and then to look at him.  If he had raged at her, if he had raged at everything, it would not have been so terrifying as this utter silence, which passed her comprehension—­this silence as of a man flung by the sea against a rock, and pinned there with the life crushed out of him.  All her inarticulate longing, now that her baby was gone, to be close to something in her grey life, to pass the unfranchisable barrier dividing her from the world, seemed to well up, to flow against this wall of silence and to recoil.

Twice or three times she addressed him timidly by name, or made some trivial remark.  He did not answer, as though in very truth he had been the shadow of a man lying there.  And the injustice of this silence seemed to her so terrible.  Was she not his wife?  Had she not borne him five, and toiled to keep him from that girl?  Was it her fault if she had made his life a hell with her jealousy, as he had cried out that morning before he went for her, and was “put away”?  He was her “man.”  It had been her right—­nay, more, her duty!