would be, perhaps, a more fitting name, but held his thought
unuttered. Wishing Milly and her mother a 'Good-night,' he
descended the old stone staircase to the kitchen, where Abraham
Lord sat smoking and looking gloomily into the embers of the fire.

'Has th' missus towd thee ought abaat aar Milly?' somewhat
sullenly interrogated the father.

'Nothing of any moment,' said Mr. Penrose. 'Of course she could
not; we were never together out of your daughter's presence.'

'Then aw'll tell thee. Milly's baan to-morn to th' infirmary to
hev her leg tan off.'

The strong man shook in the convulsive grip of his grief. No tears
came to his relief; the storm was deep down in his soul; outlet
there was none.

'Mr. Penrose,' said he, laying a hand on the minister's shoulder;
'Mr. Penrose, if I'd ha' known afore I were wed that gettin' wed
meant a child o' mine being tan fro' me and cut i' pieces by them
doctor chaps, I'd never ha' wed, fond o' Martha as I wor and am.
No, Mr. Penrose, I never would. They might tak' me, and do what
they'n a mind wi' me, at their butcherin' shops. But her--'

Here the strong man was swept by another convulsive storm of
feeling too deep for utterance. Subduing his passion by a supreme
effort of will, he continued:

'However, them as knows best says as it's her only chance, and I'm