respite, and yet every moment made her dread the more the task that
lay before her. It would be longer than she thought at first. She
took the saddle off, and hung about her horse, which seemed, somehow,
more like a friend than anything else in the world. She laid her
cheek against its neck, and rested there, before returning to the
house for the last time.

Eleanor had brought down one of her own gowns, which hung on a chair
against the fire, and had made her unknown visitor a cup of hot tea.
Susan could hardly bear all these little attentions: they choked
her, and yet she was so wet, so weak with fatigue and excitement,
that she could neither resist by voice or by action. Two children
stood awkwardly about, puzzled at the scene, and even Eleanor began
to wish for some explanation of who her strange visitor was.

"You've, maybe, heard him speaking of me? I'm called Susan Dixon."

Nelly coloured, and avoided meeting Susan's eye.

"I've heard other folk speak of you. He never named your name."

This respect of silence came like balm to Susan: balm not felt or
heeded at the time it was applied, but very grateful in its effects
for all that.

"He is at my house," continued Susan, determined not to stop or
quaver in the operation--the pain which must be inflicted.

"At your house? Yew Nook?" questioned Eleanor, surprised. "How came
he there?"--half jealously. "Did he take shelter from the coming