whether repentance urged this tardy compliance with the law of his
religion; such a question could only have provoked a sneer from the old
cynic in the bed.

Annie groped along the mantelshelf until her fingers met a tallow rush,
which she lit by holding it to the fire, and in the wan flare of yellow
her weary figure showed that she was very near to her confinement. She
turned to the bed and set the candle on the table, meeting the Squire's
quizzical glance with eyes lit only by the tiny reflections of the
candle flame--expressionless eyes, the blue of them faded and the life
dulled. Then she went out of the room, and the stairs creaked beneath
her descending feet; the clamour of her voice came to the two men above
as she called through open doors:

"Katie! Kat-_ie!_ Passon's here, and you'm to fetch Philip and come up
to wance."

More feet sounded on the stairs, clattering hobnails among them, and
Annie returned, accompanied by Katie Cotton, the dairymaid, and her
sweetheart, Philip Jacka. Philip was a lithe, restless youth, with curly
hair that caught the light and bright, glinting eyes. He was far
better-looking than his girl, and far more at his ease; sturdy,
high-bosomed Katie was guilty of an occasional sniff of feminine
sympathy; Philip looked on with the aloof superiority of the male.

The service began, and Annie listened to the words she had longed to
hear for twelve years past, the words that would make her mistress of
Cloom Manor. Morality meant as little to her as to any of the
half-savage folk of the remote West in the middle of the nineteenth
century, when the post of squire's mistress was merely considered less