’Higgins, thou knowed him!  Thou mun go tell the wife.  Do it gently, man, but do it quick, for we canna leave him here long.’

‘I canna go,’ said Higgins.  ‘Dunnot ask me.  I canna face her.’

‘Thou knows her best,’ said the man.  ’We’n done a deal in bringing him here—­thou take thy share.’

‘I canna do it,’ said Higgins.  ‘I’m welly felled wi’ seeing him.  We wasn’t friends; and now he’s dead.’

’Well, if thou wunnot thou wunnot.  Some one mun, though.  It’s a dree task; but it’s a chance, every minute, as she doesn’t hear on it in some rougher way nor a person going to make her let on by degrees, as it were.’

‘Papa, do you go,’ said Margaret, in a low voice.

’If I could—­if I had time to think of what I had better say; but all at once——­’ Margaret saw that her father was indeed unable.  He was trembling from head to foot.

‘I will go,’ said she.

‘Bless yo’, miss, it will be a kind act; for she’s been but a sickly sort of body, I hear, and few hereabouts know much on her.’

Margaret knocked at the closed door; but there was such a noise, as of many little ill-ordered children, that she could hear no reply; indeed, she doubted if she was heard, and as every moment of delay made her recoil from her task more and more, she opened the door and went in, shutting it after her, and even, unseen to the woman, fastening the bolt.

Mrs. Boucher was sitting in a rocking-chair, on the other side of the ill-redd-up fireplace; it looked as if the house had been untouched for days by any effort at cleanliness.

Margaret said something, she hardly knew what, her throat and mouth were so dry, and the children’s noise completely prevented her from being heard.  She tried again.

‘How are you, Mrs. Boucher?  But very poorly, I’m afraid.’

‘I’ve no chance o’ being well,’ said she querulously.  ’I’m left alone to manage these childer, and nought for to give ’em for to keep ’em quiet.  John should na ha’ left me, and me so poorly.’

‘How long is it since he went away?’

‘Four days sin’.  No one would give him work here, and he’d to go on tramp toward Greenfield.  But he might ha’ been back afore this, or sent me some word if he’d getten work.  He might——­’

‘Oh, don’t blame him,’ said Margaret.  ’He felt it deeply, I’m sure——­’

‘Willto’ hold thy din, and let me hear the lady speak!’ addressing herself, in no very gentle voice, to a little urchin of about a year old.  She apologetically continued to Margaret, ‘He’s always mithering me for “daddy” and “butty;” and I ha’ no butties to give him, and daddy’s away, and forgotten us a’, I think.  He’s his father’s darling, he is,’ said she, with a sudden turn of mood, and, dragging the child up to her knee, she began kissing it fondly.

Margaret laid her hand on the woman’s arm to arrest her attention.  Their eyes met.