She uttered a little scream and her cheek paled, and she put up her hands with the palms outward as though warding away his words. "Doan't 'e say things like that or give me any praise, for God's sake. I caan't bear it. I be weak, weak flesh an' blood, weaker 'n water. If you could only see down in my heart, you'd be cured of your silly love for all time." He did not answer, but picked up her basket and proceeded with her out of the valley. Chris gave a hand to the child, and save for Tim's prattle there was no speaking. At length they reached Newtake, when Martin yielded up the basket and bade Chris "good-night." He had already turned, when she called him back in a strange voice. "Kiss the li'l bwoy, will 'e? I want 'e to. I'm that fond of un. An' he 'peared to take to 'e; an' he said 'By-by' twice to 'e, but you didn't hear un." Then the man kissed Tim on a small, purple-stained mouth, and saw his eyes very lustrous with sleep, for the day was done. Woman and child disappeared; the sacking nailed along the bottom of Newtake Gate to keep the young chicks in the farmyard rustled over the ground, and Martin, turning his face away, moved homewards. But the veil was not lifted for him; he did not understand. A secret, transparent enough to any who regarded Chris Blanchard and her circumstances from a point without the theatre of action, still remained concealed from all who loved her. CHAPTER IV THE END OF THE FIGHT Will Blanchard was of the sort who fight a losing battle, "Still puffing in the dark at one poor coal, Held on by hope till the last spark is out." But the extinction of his ambitions, the final failure of his enterprise happened somewhat sooner than Miller Lyddon had predicted. There dawned a year when, just as the worst of the winter was past and hope began to revive for another season, a crushing catastrophe terminated the struggle. Mr. Blee it was who brought the ill news to Monks Barton, having first dropped it at Mrs. Blanchard's cottage and announced it promiscuously about the village. Like a dog with a bone he licked the intelligence over and, by his delay in imparting the same, reduced his master to a very fever of irritation. "Such a gashly thing! Of all fules! The last straw I do think. He's got something to grumble at now, poor twoad. Your son-in-law; but now--theer--gormed if I knaw how to tell 'e!" Alarmed at this prelude, with its dark hints of unutterable woe, Mr. Lyddon took off his spectacles in some agitation, and prayed to know the worst without any long-drawn introduction. "I'll come to it fast enough, I warn 'e. To think after years an' years he didn't knaw the duffer'nce 'twixt a bullock an' a sheep! Well--well! Of coourse us knawed times was tight, but Jack-o'-Lantern be to the end of his dance now. 'T is all awver." "What's the matter? Come to it, caan't 'e?"