“Post-mistress might tell,” objected she. But then with a sudden inspiration: “May be Nan Fordham ’d fetch it for me. She’s a good child. And ye might put A. B. on it, same as the girls do when they ’vertise for a situvation.” “Why, yes, that’s capital,” he cried. “What a clever one you is, to be sure! Nobody’d find _that_ out, I’ll be bound.” The comfort was a little one, but they hugged it and planned their plan with fresh courage. But it was parting all the time, bitter-sweet, though they painted the future brightly for one another, and took their fill of the kisses the memory of which was to keep them alive: it was parting and it hurt. They made it last as long as they could; sheltering her from the blasts with his arm around her, he took her to the edge of the wood, and many a time did he leave her, yet was fain to come back for a last word, a last embrace. But it was all over at last; he was gone, and she was left on the empty road, swallowing her tears, alone. Some one stood at the house-door as she crossed the common; the moon had sailed forth from among the clouds again and stared at her grief, and would not cover her sorrow. She could see the figure plain enough in the hard, white light, and her heart leapt to her mouth and she thanked the chance that had made Charley run down the grass slope to the railway-station instead of coming round with her by the road. She knew to whom the figure belonged, and she knew what it would say, and try as she would to call to mind her lover’s brave banter, try as she would to steel herself as he had bade her, her cheek was as white as the moonlight and her heart fell against her side. “Where’ve ye been?” thundered the figure as she came up, and the first word told her that the man was in drink. “Down the village,” she faltered, faintly. “That’s a lie,” he shouted. “Why’s your feet soppin’ wet, and what are them dead leaves a-stickin’ in yer ’air for?” She put her hand up vaguely; it was true—the leaves of the wood had left upon her the loving memory of her happiness. She took the two withered witnesses from her curls and pressed them to her bosom. “Ye’ve been down in the copse, and ye’ve been and met a man there, ye shameless slut,” shrieked the father, shuffling a step nearer to her and seizing her by the arm. “Now, don’t tell me no more darned lies. It ain’t no use. You’ve been see’d a-cuddlin’ and a-kissin’, fit to shame the mother that bore ye. And I tell ye what, I’ve ’ad my suspicions this fortnight past, and if this lover o’ yours—damn ’im!—’ave got aught to do with that stuck-up good-for-nothing son of a scamp—ye know well enough who I mean!—I’ll break every bone in his blasted body! So now ye’re warned, and ye know me well enough to guess I’ll do what I say.”