"I have thought a great deal of--what he left unfinished," she said. "I have wished that I might see it. It would be almost as if I had seen him." "I can show it to you," Murdoch answered. "It is a little thing to have caused so great pain." They said but little else until they rose to go. As he sat watching the long grass wave under the warm wind, Murdoch felt that his excitement had calmed down. He was in a cooler mood when they got up at last. But before they turned away the girl lingered for a moment, as if she wished to speak. "Sometimes," she faltered,--"sometimes I have thought you had half forgotten." "Nay," he answered, "never that, God knows!" "I could not bear to believe it," she said, passionately. "It would make me hate you!" When they reached home he took her upstairs to his room. He had locked the door when he left it in the morning. He unlocked it, and they went in. A cloth covered something standing upon the table. He drew it aside with an unsteady hand. "Look at it," he said. "It has been there since last night. You see it haunts me too." "What!" she said, "you brought it out yourself--again!" "Yes," he answered, "again." She drew nearer, and sat down in the chair before the table. "He used to sit here?" she said. "Yes." "If it had been finished," she said, as if speaking to herself, "Death would have seemed a little thing to him. Even if it should be finished now, I think he would forget the rest." CHAPTER XXIII. "TEN SHILLINGS' WORTH." The same evening Mr. Briarley, having partaken of an early tea and some vigorous advice from his wife, had suddenly, during a lull in the storm, vanished from the domestic circle, possibly called therefrom by the recollection of a previous engagement. Mrs. Briarley had gone out to do her "Sunday shoppin'," the younger children had been put to bed, the older ones were disporting themselves in the streets and by-ways, and consequently Janey was left alone, uncheered save by the presence of Granny Dixon, who had fallen asleep in her chair with her cap unbecomingly disarranged. Janey sat down upon her stool at a discreet distance from the hearth. She had taken down from its place her last book of "memoirs,"--a volume of a more than usually orthodox and peppery flavor. She held it within range of the light of the fire and began to read in a subdued tone with much unction. But she had only mastered the interesting circumstance that "James Joseph William was born November 8th," when her attention was called to the fact that wheels had stopped before the gate and she paused to listen. "Bless us!" she said. "Some un's comin' in." The person in question was Haworth, who so far dispensed with ceremony as to walk up to the firelight without even knocking at the door, which stood open. "Where's your father?" he demanded. "He's takken hissen off to th' beer-house," said Janey, "as he allus does o' Saturday neet,--an' ivvery other neet too, as he gets th' chance."