There was a little cold shiver at Polly Morrison's breast, though, all the same, and it kept returning as she sat there over her work that evening, rocking the cradle with one foot, and wondering whether she could gain strength enough to tell her husband all about Cyril Mallow, and the old days at Dinan. But no, she could not, and they discussed, as Tom smoked his pipe, the state of affairs at the rectory; how Mrs Mallow remained as great an invalid as ever, and how they seemed to spare no expense, although people had said they went abroad because they had grown so poor. "Folk seem strange and sore against parson," said Tom at last. "Then it's very cruel of them, for master is a real good man," cried Polly. "They don't like it about owd Sammy Warmoth. They say he killed him," said Tom, between the puffs of his pipe. "Such nonsense!" cried Polly; "and him ninety-three." "Then they are taking sides against him for wanting to get rid of Humphrey Bone." "And more shame for them," cried Polly, indignantly. "Well, I don't know," said Tom; "I've rather a liking for old Humphrey. He taught me." "He's a nasty wicked old man," cried Polly. "He tried to kiss me one day when he was tipsy." "He did?" cried Tom, breaking his pipe in the angry rush that seemed to come over him. "Yes, Tom, and I boxed his ears," said the little woman, shivering again, for the fit of jealous anger did not escape her searching eyes. "That's right, lass. I'm dead on for a new master now." Then a discussion arose as to the baby's name, Tom wanting it to be called after his wife, who was set upon Julia, and she carried the day. "There," said Tom, "if anybody had told me a couple of years ago that any bit of a thing of a girl was going to wheedle me, and twist me round her finger, and do what she liked with me, I should have told him he didn't know what he was talking about." "And you don't mind, Tom, dear?" "No," he said, smiling, "I don't mind, if it pleases thee, my lass." "And it does, dear, very, very much," she said, kissing him. But Polly Morrison did not feel happy, and several times that night there was the little shiver of dread at her heart, and she wished she could tell Tom all. PART ONE, CHAPTER EIGHT. THE BLACK SHADOW. It was, as Julia Mallow said, a very pretty baby, that of Polly Morrison and her husband, when she spoke to her invalid mother, lying so patiently passive upon the couch in her own room; but that weak little morsel of humanity had a part to play in the troubles of the Rev Eli Mallow's life. For hardly had the tiny babe sent to the care of Tom Morrison and his young wife begun to smile upon them, than it was taken suddenly ill. No childish ailment this, brought on by careless attendance; but the cold grey hand of death was laid upon the fragile form, its little eyes--erst so bright and blue--sunken, and the tiny nose pinched and blue.