subject of the Maypole for that night, or there was no faith in woman.

But Mrs. Varden was a lady of uncertain temper, and she was on this
occasion so ill-tempered, and put herself to so much anxiety and
agitation, aided and abetted by her shrewish hand-maiden, Miggs, that
next morning she was, she said, too much indisposed to rise. The
disconsolate locksmith had, therefore, to deliver himself of his story
of the night's experiences to his daughter, buxom, bewitching Dolly, the
very pink and pattern of good looks, and the despair of the youth of the
neighbourhood.

Calling next day in the evening, Gabriel Varden learnt the wounded man
was better, and would shortly be removed.

Varden chatted as an old friend with Barnaby's mother. He knew the
Maypole story of the widow Rudge--how her husband, employed at Chigwell,
and his master had been murdered; and how her son, born upon the very
day the deed was known, bore upon his wrist a smear of blood but half
washed out.

"Why, what's that?" said the locksmith suddenly. "Is that Barnaby
tapping at the door?"

"No," returned the widow; "it was in the street, I think. Hark! 'Tis
someone knocking softly at the shutter."

"Some thief or ruffian," said the locksmith. "Give me a light."

"No, no," she returned hastily. "I would rather go myself, alone."