Every night Dr.  ‘Jimmy’ Forsyth came to the rectory with the latest details respecting Maryllia’s condition,—­though for weeks there was no change to report.  She was suffering from violent concussion of the brain, and was otherwise seriously injured, but Forsyth would not as yet state how serious the injuries were.  For he guessed Walden’s secret, and was deeply touched by the quiet patience and restrained sorrow of the apparently calm, self-contained man who, notwithstanding his own inward acute agony, never forgot a single detail having to do with the poor or sick of the parish,—­who soothed little Ipsie Frost’s bewildered grief concerning her ’poor bootiful white lady-love,’—­and who sat with old Josey Letherbarrow by his cottage fire, trying as best he could to explain, ay, even to excuse the mysterious ways of divine Providence as apparently shown in the visitation of cruel affliction on the head of a sweet and innocent woman.  Josey was a little dazed about it all and could not be brought to realise that ‘th’ owld Squire’s gel’ might never rise from her bed again.

“G’arn with ye!” he said, indignantly, to the melancholy village gossips who came in to see him and shake their heads generally over life and its brief vanities—­“Th’ Almighty Lord ain’t a pulin’, spiteful, hoppitty kicketty devil wot ain’t sure of ’is own mind!  He don’t make a pretty thing just to break it agin all for nowt!  Didn’t ye all come clickettin’ to me about the Five Sister beeches, an’ ain’t they still stannin’?  An’ Miss Maryllia ‘ull stan’ too just as fast an’ firm as the trees,—­you take my wurrd for’t!  She ain’t goin’ to die!  Why look at me—­just on ninety, an’ I ain’t dead yet!”

But a qualm of fear and foreboding came over him whenever ‘Passon’ visited him.  John’s sad face told him more than words could express.

“Ain’t she no better, Passon?” he would ask, timidly and tremblingly.

And John, laying his own hand on the old brown wrinkled one, would reply gently,

“No better, Josey!  But we must hope,—­we must hope always, and believe that God will be merciful.”

“An’ if He ain’t merciful, what’ll we do?” persisted Josey once, with tears in his poor dim eyes.

“We must submit!” answered John, almost sternly—­“We must believe that He knows what is wise and good for her—­and for us all!  And we must live out our lives patiently without her, Josey!—­patiently, till the blessed end—­till that peace cometh which passeth all understanding!”

And Josey, looking at him, was awed by the pale spiritual serenity of his features and the tragic human grief of his eyes.