awready. Wheniver it's light I'll go fetch Muster Drew.'

With the first rays of the morning Bolderfield got up from the bed in
Mary Anne's cottage, where she had placed him a couple of hours before,
imploring him to lie still and rest himself. He slipped on his coat, the
only garment he had taken off, and taking his stick he crept down to the
cottage door. Mary Anne, who had gone out to fetch some bread, had left
it ajar. He opened it and stood on the threshold looking out.

The storm of the night was over, and already a milder breeze was
beginning to melt the newly-fallen snow. The sun was striking cheerfully
from the hill behind him upon the glistening surfaces of the distant
fields; the old labourer felt a hint of spring in the air. It brought
with it a hundred vague associations, and filled him with a boundless
despair. What would become of him now--penniless and old and feeble? The
horror of Bessie's death no longer stood between him and his own pain,
and would soon even cease to protect her from his hatred.

Mary Anne came back along the lane, carrying a jug and a loaf. Her
little face was all blanched and drawn with weariness; yet when she saw
him her look kindled. She ran up to him.

'What did yer come down for, John? I'd ha taken yer yer breakfast in yer
bed.'

He looked at her, then at the food. His eyes filled with tears.

'I can't pay yer for it,' he said, pointing with his stick; 'I can't pay
yer for it.'