The summer drew on, and Rhoda Brook almost dreaded to meet Mrs. Lodge
again, notwithstanding that her feeling for the young wife amounted well-
nigh to affection. Something in her own individuality seemed to convict
Rhoda of crime. Yet a fatality sometimes would direct the steps of the
latter to the outskirts of Holmstoke whenever she left her house for any
other purpose than her daily work; and hence it happened that their next
encounter was out of doors. Rhoda could not avoid the subject which had
so mystified her, and after the first few words she stammered, 'I hope
your--arm is well again, ma'am?' She had perceived with consternation
that Gertrude Lodge carried her left arm stiffly.

'No; it is not quite well. Indeed it is no better at all; it is rather
worse. It pains me dreadfully sometimes.'

'Perhaps you had better go to a doctor, ma'am.'

She replied that she had already seen a doctor. Her husband had insisted
upon her going to one. But the surgeon had not seemed to understand the
afflicted limb at all; he had told her to bathe it in hot water, and she
had bathed it, but the treatment had done no good.

'Will you let me see it?' said the milkwoman.

Mrs. Lodge pushed up her sleeve and disclosed the place, which was a few
inches above the wrist. As soon as Rhoda Brook saw it, she could hardly
preserve her composure. There was nothing of the nature of a wound, but
the arm at that point had a shrivelled look, and the outline of the four
fingers appeared more distinct than at the former time. Moreover, she
fancied that they were imprinted in precisely the relative position of
her clutch upon the arm in the trance; the first finger towards