into the Frampton Infirmary. That was in November. Since then nothing
had been heard of him. John was no scholar. What if he died without
coming back? There would be no trouble then, except--except with Isaac.

Her mind suddenly filled with wild visions--of herself marched through
the village by Watson, as she had once seen him march a poacher who had
mauled one of Mr. Forrest's keepers--of the towering walls of Frampton
Gaol--of a visible physical shame which would kill her--drive her mad.
If, indeed, Isaac did not kill her before any one but he knew! He had
been that cross and glum all these last weeks--never a bit of talk
hardly--always snapping at her and the children. Yet he had never said a
word to her about the drink--nor about the things she had bought. As to
the 'things' and the bills, she believed that he knew nothing--had
noticed nothing. At home he was always smoking, sitting silent, with dim
eyes, like a man in a dream--or reading his father's old books, 'good
books,' which filled Bessie with a sense of dreariness unspeakable--or
pondering his weekly paper.

But she believed he had begun to notice the drink. Drinking was
universal in Clinton, though there was not much drunkenness.
Teetotallers were unknown, and Isaac himself drank his beer freely, and
a glass of spirits, like anybody else on occasion. She had been used for
years to fetch his beer from the public, and she had been careful. But
there were signs--

Oh! if she could only think of some way of putting it back--this
thirty-odd pounds. She held her head between her hands, thinking and
thinking. Couldn't that little lawyer man to whom she went every month
at Bedford, to fetch her legacy money--couldn't he lend it her, and keep
her money till it was paid? She could make up a story, and give him