weather-beaten, furrowed, brown,--that her teeth were gone, and her
hair gray and ragged. And yet she was not two years older than
Nelly,--she had not been, in youth, when she took account of these
things. Nelly stood wondering at the strange-enough horse-woman, who
stopped and panted at the door, holding her horse's bridle, and
refusing to enter.

"Where is Michael Hurst?" asked Susan, at last.

"Well, I can't rightly say. He should have been at home last night,
but he was off, seeing after a public-house to be let at Ulverstone,
for our farm does not answer, and we were thinking--"

"He did not come home last night?" said Susan, cutting short the
story, and half-affirming, half-questioning, by way of letting in a
ray of the awful light before she let it full in, in its consuming
wrath.

"No! he'll be stopping somewhere out Ulverstone ways. I'm sure we've
need of him at home, for I've no one but lile Tommy to help me tend
the beasts. Things have not gone well with us, and we don't keep a
servant now. But you're trembling all over, ma'am. You'd better
come in, and take something warm, while your horse rests. That's the
stable-door, to your left."

Susan took her horse there; loosened his girths, and rubbed him down
with a wisp of straw. Then she hooked about her for hay; but the
place was bare of feed, and smelt damp and unused. She went to the
house, thankful for the respite, and got some clap-bread, which she
mashed up in a pailful of lukewarm water. Every moment was a