“Well, and so I have, ye foolish woman; and he drew the whole packet out of his pocket and flung them fiercely on the table. Mrs. Maxley ran her finger and eye over them, and uttered a scream of anger and despair. “These! these be all Hardie's notes,” she cried; “and what vally be Hardie's notes when Hardie's be broke?” Maxley staggered as if he had been shot. The woman's eyes flashed fury at him. “This is your work, ye born idiot: 'mind your own business,' says you: you _must_ despise your wedded wife, that has more brains in her finger than you have in all your great long useless carease: you _must_ have your secrets: one day poison, another day beggary: you have ruined me, you have murdered me: get out of my sight! for if I find a knife I'll put it in you, I will.” And in her ungovernable passion, she actually ran to the dresser for a knife: at which Maxley caught up a chair and lifted it furiously, above his head to fling at her. Luckily the man had more self-command than the woman; he dashed the chair furiously on the floor, and ran out of the house. He wandered about half stupid, and presently his feet took him mechanically round to his garden. He pottered about among his plants, looking at them, inspecting them closely, and scarce seeing them. However, he covered up one or two, and muttered, “I think there will be a frost to-night: I think there will be a frost” Then his legs seemed to give way. He sat down and thought of his wedding-day: he began to talk to himself out loud, as some people do in trouble. “Bless her comely face,” said he, “and to think I had my arm lifted to strike her, after wearing her so low, and finding her good stuff upon the whole. Well, thank my stars I didn't We must make the best on't: money's gone; but here's the garden and our hands still; and 'tain't as if we were single to gnaw our hearts alone: wedded life cuts grief a two. Let's make it up and begin again. Sixty come Martinmas, and Susan forty-eight: and I be a'most weary of turning moulds.” He went round to his front door. There was a crowd round it; a buzzing crowd with all their faces turned towards his door. He came at their backs, and asked peevishly what was to do now. Some of the women shrieked at his voice. The crowd turned about; and a score of faces peered at him: some filled with curiosity, some with pity. “Lord help us!” said the poor man, “is there any more trouble a foot to-day? Stand aside, please, and let me know.” “No! no!” cried a woman, “don't let him.” “Not let me go into my own house, young woman?” said Maxley with dignity: “be these your manners?” “Oh, James: I meant you no ill. Poor man!” “Poor soul!” said another. “Stand aloof!” said a strange man. “Who has as good a right to be there as he have?”