‘O good Lord!’ then cried Anne in a piteous crying voice—the note of a bird over its harried nest. She seemed to forget the presence of a stranger, and, sinking down against a settle that stood by the wall, she hid her face in her hands and sobbed, rocking herself back and forwards in her bitter grief. ‘Sebastian, Sebastian dear, you are not wedded true and certain?’ she cried. ‘O God help me, an’ what am I to do now? O Lord! O Lord!’ The young man who had brought this ill news did not go away and leave Anne alone with her sorrow, as most men would have done. He sat down on the settle she leant against and laid his hand kindly on her shoulder though he said nothing. Anne sobbed on, with hidden face, and all the time her visitor’s bright eyes were roving round the room, taking in every detail of its poor arrangements, yet ever and again he would pat the girl’s shoulder in token of sympathy. Suddenly Anne rose to her feet. ‘He’s not worth a tear,’ she said. ‘He’s like the rest of you. I had no opinion of men before that I took up with Sebastian, an’ a fool I was to be deceived with him. You’re all like that,’ she cried, pointing to the pile of straw at her feet. ‘A spark’ll send you up in a blaze, and you’re as much to be leaned on as that.’ She plucked a straw from the heap, and snapped the brittle yellow stalk across as she spoke, with an unconsciously dramatic gesture. ‘Come, not all,’ said the young man, surprised by her words. ‘Yes, all. Well, this I do say for Sebastian, he’s as fine a liar as he was a lover—would take in Judas hisself with them straight eyes o’ his.’ ‘I am grieved to have borne such bitter news to any one,’ said the young man. ‘But you take it the right way, Anne, and when Shepley returns ’twill be to find a better man in his place.’ ‘Better man! There’s not one good among ’em—no, not one,’ said Anne, bitterly. She walked away to the little window, through which the sunshine was pouring in with garish brightness, and leant her forehead against the panes. ‘Come, Anne,’ urged her visitor, following her to the window. ‘You must do your endeavour to forget him. ’Tis a scurvy trick he has played you, but there’s a proverb suited to your case I would have you remember, about the good fish in the sea! Come, here is a coin as yellow as your hair to help you to the forgetting. Buy yourself a new gown with ribbands and have a night at the play.’ Anne looked askance at the stranger’s gold for a moment; then she flung back her head and laughed a harsh-sounding mirthless laugh. ‘I had best make sure ’tis gold I’ve got this time!’ she said, catching up the coin and ringing it on the table. ‘I shall bid you good-night then, my good girl,’ said the stranger, and held out his hand once again. A minute later he plunged down the dark old stair. ‘What is it like? going down thus into darkness?’ he said to himself; but he did not reply to the question. CHAPTER II