She sighed; the assertion made it plainer than ever to her in what condition they had last seen him. She drew the old shawl that she had caught up in her haste tightly round her elbows and shivered. “You go ’ome to the childer,” said the man kindly. “They be little uns; they needs ye most, ye know.” “Thank ye,” retorted she sharply, “I knows best for myself where’s I be most needed. The childer’s in bed and asleep these hours gone.” And she turned back to her old place by the wall, leaning on it and gazing down into the marsh. The men walked on, and were gone in the mist. It was the last mortification that could be laid on her—that folk should _know_—what she had known for long. But she was too actually sodden with misery to care as she would have cared a year or two ago. For she knew it—oh, yes, she knew it all! But she had never let any one guess that she knew it, least of all him. Perhaps it was because of her pride, as the man had surmised; perhaps it was because she had a vague hope that by silence and patience she would best strengthen the thread that still held him to her. She was only a simple woman, but she understood him pretty well, and she knew that the thread was there; she knew that it was weakness that led him away from her—weakness fortified by evil counsel and evil comradeship. And in the darkness she clenched her poor horny little hand and prayed that she might be even with Casey some day. And meanwhile she waited, shivering in the fog, and her heart went out in passionate longing to the man who was faithless to her, who neglected her, who squandered her earnings, and was slowly bringing her to the grave. Wilson had said: “It’s past crediting what some women’ll look over in the man they love!” But the minutes flew fast and grew into a long hour, and there was no sign of Jerry, and at last the wife had to remember the mother and go home to the babes. Little Sue stirred. “Be that father?” asked she drowsily. “No, dear, not yet. You go to sleep,” said the mother, “But ye won’t fret, mother, will you?” said the child again. “Oh, no, dear, I won’t fret,” promised the poor soul, though her voice would have given the lie to her words had the child not been dulled with healthy weariness. The little one turned round in bed, and the mother sat herself by the window wrapping her shawl more closely around her. But she did not keep her promise—she did fret. She sat and rocked herself to and fro, and thought of all she might have done which she had not done, and of all she had done that would have best been left undone. Yes, she had worried him; she had been too sharp, too fretful. She had not been able to make life gay for him—there were always so many cares; and he hated cares and loved gaiety.