He stood there full half a minute, gazing at her as one dazed. Then he muttered: “How was I to guess?” and dropped his eyes. He could hear her breathing hard, but she said no more, and after a while he asked suddenly: “Where is ’e? ’Ave ’e deserted ye—the sc——” She interrupted him. “’E’s dead,” she said quickly. And then she added, half whimpering: “’E said ’e would ha’ wed me, and p’r’aps ’e would. Anyways it’s too late now.” “And the brat?” asked he in a dull voice. She moved her head restlessly, looking out to the rosy west. Then dropping her voice to a whisper, she murmured softly: “It’s dead too.” He was awed involuntarily and answered nothing. He did not even dare look at her face, but he could see by the rise and fall of her shoulders that she was crying. “Them as know I bore ’im,” she continued presently in an excited way, “they say as I ought to thank my stars ’e’s dead and buried and can’t tell no tales. That’s all _they_ knows about it. They didn’t never lose a child, them folk didn’t! What if ’e ’ad ha’ told tales o’ my shame? I’d ha’ put up with that, and willing, so as I’d ’ad ’im to work for.” She choked down a sob, and wiped her eyes with the hem of her skirt. “I’m sorry for ye, I’m sure,” said he drearily. “Oh, ’e _were_ a pretty babe, Mr. Martin,” continued she, forgetful for the moment of all but the memories that this seeming touch of sympathy had awakened, and she turned to him with sweet and simple confidence. “Just the prettiest ye ever seed! He might ha’ been a lady’s, so white he were! I done all I could to save ’im, but it weren’t a bit o’ use. And I ’eld ’im in my arms hours and hours arter ’e was dead—’cos I couldn’t believe it, ye see. But I couldn’t put my breath into ’im, though I’d ha’ done it if I could—Lord, I’d ha’ done it willin’!” She drew in her breath with a quick gasp, and added hoarsely: “It do seem ’ard, don’t it?” “Yes, it _do_ seem precious ’ard,” he repeated, but without looking at her, and his voice as he said it was hard as iron. In a moment her whole attitude changed. She drew herself up, as though turned to stone, and looked at him quickly. The light was growing so dim in the lane that she could not see his face. But there was no need; the voice told plainly enough what the face was like, and immediately her tears were quenched, and the softness in her shrank away, as from a cruel gaze. The afterglow was almost spent in the west, leaving only a warmer tone upon the marsh and a more metallic light upon the stream that crossed it; the moon, having risen out of the sea, was just level with the eastern down, and the pine-stems upon its ridge crossed the white disc darkly. Solitary figures coming from the mill on the hill’s crest, strayed across the brown slope beneath them, and a group of men and women returning to the camp sang snatches of song as they lounged along the road in the hollow. Jenny shook herself as she heard them.