Eleanor had brought down one of her own gowns, which hung on a chair against the fire, and had made her unknown visitor a cup of hot tea. Susan could hardly bear all these little attentions: they choked her, and yet she was so wet, so weak with fatigue and excitement, that she could neither resist by voice or by action. Two children stood awkwardly about, puzzled at the scene, and even Eleanor began to wish for some explanation of who her strange visitor was. “You’ve, maybe, heard him speaking of me? I’m called Susan Dixon.” Nelly coloured, and avoided meeting Susan’s eye. “I’ve heard other folk speak of you. He never named your name.” This respect of silence came like balm to Susan: balm not felt or heeded at the time it was applied, but very grateful in its effects for all that. “He is at my house,” continued Susan, determined not to stop or quaver in the operation—the pain which must be inflicted. “At your house? Yew Nook?” questioned Eleanor, surprised. “How came he there?”—half jealously. “Did he take shelter from the coming storm? Tell me,—there is something—tell me, woman!” “He took no shelter. Would to God he had!” “O! would to God! would to God!” shrieked out Eleanor, learning all from the woful import of those dreary eyes. Her cries thrilled through the house; the children’s piping wailings and passionate cries on “Daddy! Daddy!” pierced into Susan’s very marrow. But she remained as still and tearless as the great round face upon the clock. At last, in a lull of crying, she said,—not exactly questioning, but as if partly to herself— “You loved him, then?” “Loved him! he was my husband! He was the father of three bonny bairns that lie dead in Grasmere churchyard. I wish you’d go, Susan Dixon, and let me weep without your watching me! I wish you’d never come near the place.” “Alas! alas! it would not have brought him to life. I would have laid down my own to save his. My life has been so very sad! No one would have cared if I had died. Alas! alas!” The tone in which she said this was so utterly mournful and despairing that it awed Nelly into quiet for a time. But by-and-by she said, “I would not turn a dog out to do it harm; but the night is clear, and Tommy shall guide you to the Red Cow. But, oh, I want to be alone! If you’ll come back to-morrow, I’ll be better, and I’ll hear all, and thank you for every kindness you have shown him,—and I do believe you’ve showed him kindness,—though I don’t know why.” Susan moved heavily and strangely.