For a moment, a touch of the old kindness came to Arthur’s heart. He shook Winnington’s hand. “Thank you, thank you,” he said, “I will do as you advise. Your voice is very like Lucy’s, and so are your eyes--good night, dear Winnington.” And Winnington left the room, so did Arthur, but not for bed. A short time before this, a package had arrived from Hawsleigh, and had been placed away in a dark closet under the stairs. He looked for a moment out into the night. The moon was in a cloud, and the wind was howling with a desolate sound over the bare moor. He took down the package, and from it extracted a spade and a pickaxe; and, gently opening the front door, went out. He walked quickly till he came to the waterfall; he looked carefully round and saw a clump of broom. The ground from the rectory to this place formed a gentle declivity; where the river flowed there were high banks, for the stream had not yet been swelled by the rains, and he first descended into the bed, and examined the denuded cliffs. He then hurried towards the broom, and began to dig. He dug and struck with the pickaxe, and shovelled up the soil--weighing, smelling, tasting it, as he descended foot by foot. He dug to the depth of a yard; he jumped into the hole and pursued his work--breathless, hot, untiring. The moon for a moment came out from the clouds that obscured her. He availed himself of her light and held up a particle of soil and stone; it glittered for an instant in the moonbeam. With an almost audible cry he threw it to the bottom of the excavation, and was scrambling out when he heard a voice. It was the drunken shoemaker returning from some distant merrymaking. He lay down at the bottom of the hole, watching for the approaching footsteps. At a little distance from the waterfall the singer changed his path, and diverged towards the village. The song died off in the distance. “That danger’s past,” said Arthur, “both for him and me. I would have killed him if he had come nearer. Back, back,” he continued, while he filled up the hole he had made, carefully shovelling in the soil--“No eye shall detect that you have been moved.” He replaced the straggling turf where it had been disturbed; stampt it down with his feet, and beat it smooth with his spade. And then went home. “Hallo! who’s there?” cried Winnington, hearing the door open and shut. “Is that you, Arthur?” “Yes; are you not asleep yet?” “I’ve been asleep for hours. How late you are. Weren’t you out of the house just now?” “I felt hot, and went out for a minute to see the moon.” “Hot?” said Winnington. “I wish I had another blanket--good night.” Arthur passed on to his own room. “If he had opened his door,” he said, “and seen my dirty clothes, these yellow stains on my knees, these dabbled hands, what could I have done?” He saw himself in the glass as he said this; there was something in the expression of his face that alarmed him. He drew back.