“Ah! ’tis a bad job--’tis surely,” responded the other, almost whimpering; “and the worst on’t is we be nigh six mile from a doctor.” “Oh, Mr. Stubbs,” cried the keeper’s wife earnestly, “let’s do everything we can, any way! Will ye go for the doctor for me? Do! I’ll--I’ll give ye every penny in the house if ye will!” “Lard! my dear ’ooman, I don’t want no pay for doin’ what I can at sich a time. I’ll go, to be sure, an’ make so much haste as I can; but--won’t ye be afeard to bide here all alone--and him so bad?” Betty saw that he expected her husband would die before his return, but she did not flinch. “I will do anything in the world so long as there’s a chance of saving him!” she cried. “Run, Mr. Stubbs, run! Make haste--oh, do make haste!” Stubbs drew his arm from beneath the wounded man’s shoulder, and hastened away without another word. Betty went to her linen-drawer, and found an old sheet, which she tied round Jim’s body to staunch the bleeding; he seemed to have received the charge chiefly in his right side. He opened his eyes and smiled at her faintly, and then she dropped on her knees beside him. “Jim,” she whispered, “you never went away arter all?” He shook his head feebly. “I meant it for the best,” he said; “I heard these chaps would be up to their tricks to-night, and I thought me and Stubbs ’ud catch them.” “Oh, Jim,” said Betty, “ye told me a lie!” “I meant it for the best, my dear,” he returned faintly. “I didn’t want ye to be frayed--poor little ’ooman! Ye mustn’t be vexed.” Betty stooped and kissed him, and he closed his eyes. “I reckon I’m goin’,” he said. “Well, I done my dooty. But what ’ull ye do, my dear?” “I’ll manage,” said Betty. Her voice had a harsh note quite unlike its own; she sank down in a heap on the floor, staring before her. She knew what she would do if Jim died. She would first of all find the man who had killed him, and then--oh, he should pay for it! Jim had fallen into a kind of drowsy state, and presently his hand slipped down and unconsciously touched hers: it was very cold. Betty, rousing herself, went towards the hearth, drawing the embers together. There was not enough fuel, however, to make much of a fire; and, softly opening the door, she went out to the woodshed, her bare feet making no sound on the damp stones. As she was returning with her burden the wicket-gate swung open, and Dick Tuffin come up the path. “Mrs. Whittle! Mrs. Whittle!” he called pantingly. She turned and confronted him. The moon had dipped behind the trees and she could not distinguish his face, but something in the aspect of the man struck her with a lightning-like intuition. “Come in,” she said hoarsely.