he went on--sustained, and none the less certainly that he did not
know it, from the fountain of his life. When the winter came, his
sufferings, cared for as he had been, and accustomed to warmth and
softness, must at times have been considerable. In the day his work
was a protection, but at night the house was cold. He had, however,
plenty to eat, had no ailment, and was not to be greatly pitied.



Chapter XII.

Clare becomes a guardian of the poor.


Simpson, the bully of Clare's childhood, went limping about on a
crutch, permanently lame, and full of hatred toward the innocent
occasion of the injury he had brought upon himself. Ever since his
recovery, he had, loitering about in idleness, watched the boy, to
waylay and catch him at unawares. Not until Clare went to the farm,
however, did he once succeed; for it was not difficult to escape him,
so long as he had not laid actual hold on his prey. But he grew more
and more cunning, and contrived at last, by creeping along hedges and
lying in ambush like a snake, to get his hands upon him. Then the poor
boy fared ill.

He went home bleeding and torn. The righteous churchwarden rebuked him
with severity for fighting. His mistress told him she was glad he had
met with some one to give him what he deserved, for she could hardly
keep her hands off him. He stared at her with wondering eyes, but said
nothing. She turned from them: the devil in her could not look in the