“I’ll do no less,” said the farmer.  He went into the passage shouting for Mrs. Sumfit to bring down the box.

“She begs,” Mrs. Sumfit answered to him—­“She begs, William, on’y a short five minutes to pray by herself, which you will grant unto her, dear, you will.  Lord! what’s come upon us?”

“Quick, and down with the box, then, mother,” he rejoined.

The box was dragged out, and Dahlia’s door was shut, that she might have her last minutes alone.

Rhoda kissed her sister before leaving her alone:  and so cold were Dahlia’s lips, so tight the clutch of her hands, that she said:  “Dearest, think of God:”  and Dahlia replied:  “I do.”

“He will not forsake you,” Rhoda said.

Dahlia nodded, with shut eyes, and Rhoda went forth.

“And now, Robert, you and I’ll see who’s master on these premises,” said the farmer.  “Hear, all!  I’m bounders under a sacred obligation to the husband of my child, and the Lord’s wrath on him who interferes and lifts his hand against me when I perform my sacred duty as a father.  Place there!  I’m going to open the door.  Rhoda, see to your sister’s bonnet and things.  Robert, stand out of my way.  There’s no refreshment of any sort you’ll accept of before starting, Mr. Sedgett?  None at all!  That’s no fault of my hospitality.  Stand out of my way, Robert.”

He was obeyed.  Robert looked at Rhoda, but had no reply for her gaze of despair.

The farmer threw the door wide open.

There were people in the garden—­strangers.  His name was inquired for out of the dusk.  Then whisperings were heard passing among the ill-discerned forms, and the farmer went out to them.  Robert listened keenly, but the touch of Rhoda’s hand upon his own distracted his hearing.  “Yet it must be!” he said.  “Why does she come here?”

Both he and Rhoda followed the farmer’s steps, drawn forth by the ever-credulous eagerness which arises from an interruption to excited wretchedness.  Near and nearer to the group, they heard a quaint old woman exclaim:  “Come here to you for a wife, when he has one of his own at home; a poor thing he shipped off to America, thinking himself more cunning than devils or angels:  and she got put out at a port, owing to stress of weather, to defeat the man’s wickedness!  Can’t I prove it to you, sir, he’s a married man, which none of us in our village knew till the poor tricked thing crawled back penniless to find him;—­and there she is now with such a story of his cunning to tell to anybody as will listen; and why he kept it secret to get her pension paid him still on.  It’s all such a tale for you to hear by-and-by.”

Robert burst into a glorious laugh.

“Why, mother!  Mrs. Boulby! haven’t you got a word for me?”