She had as yet scarcely noticed the room in which she was.  At length she surveyed it; its poverty brought tears in her eyes.  There had been a fire, but the last spark was dead.  She began to feel cold.

Soon there was the sound of someone ascending the stairs, and Emma, after knocking, again entered.  She carried a tray with tea-things, which she placed upon the table.  Then, having glanced at the fireplace, she took from a cupboard wood and paper and was beginning to make a fire when Adela stopped her, saying: 

’You must not do that for me.  I will light the fire myself, if you will let me.’

Emma looked up in surprise.

‘It is kind of you to bring me the tea,’ Adela continued.  ’But let me do the rest.’

‘If you wish to—­yes,’ the other replied, without understanding the thought which prompted Adela.  She carefully held herself from glancing towards the dead man, and moved away.

Adela approached her.

‘Have you a room for the night?’

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘Will you—­will you take my hand before you leave me?’ She held it forth; Emma, with eyes turned to the ground, gave her own.

‘Look at me,’ Adela said, under her breath.

Their eyes met, and at last Emma understood.  In that grave, noble gaze was far more than sympathy and tenderness; it was a look that besought pardon.

‘May I come to you in the night to see if you need anything?’ Emma asked.

‘I shall need nothing.  Come only if you can’t sleep.’

Adela lit the fire and began her night’s watching.

CHAPTER XXXVI

A deep breath of country air.  It is springtime, and the valley of Wanley is bursting into green and flowery life, peacefully glad as if the foot of Demos had never come that way.  Incredible that the fume of furnaces ever desecrated that fleece-sown sky of tenderest blue, that hammers clanged and engines roared where now the thrush utters his song so joyously.  Hubert Eldon has been as good as his word.  In all the valley no trace is left of what was called New Wanley.  Once more we can climb to the top of Stanbury Hill and enjoy the sense of remoteness and security when we see that dark patch on the horizon, the cloud that hangs over Belwick.

Hubert and the vicar of Wanley stood there together one morning in late April, more than a year after the death of Richard Mutimer.  Generally there was a strong breeze on this point, but to-day the west was breathing its gentlest, warm upon the cheek.

‘Well, it has gone,’ Hubert said.  ’May will have free playing-ground.’

‘In one sense,’ replied the vicar, ’I fear it will never be gone.  Its influence on the life of the people in Wanley and in some of the farms about has been graver than you imagine.  I find discontent where it was formerly unknown.  The typical case is that lad of Bolton’s.  They wanted him sadly at home; by this time he would have been helping his unfortunate father.  Instead of that he’s the revolutionary oracle of Belwick pot-houses, and appears on an average once a fortnight before the magistrates for being drunk and disorderly.’