"Well," said she, as though waiting for Catherine to speak. "I couldn't rest--I don't think I can sleep," said the girl. "Ah, you've made your bed and you must lie on it," said Mrs. Job grimly. There was a pause. "You've made a bed that'll be hard," she continued, "not for your body but your soul. You've taken a man that may give you down to lie on an' trouble to wake to." She seated herself bolt upright upon the single chair the room contained. In the candlelight her thin, sharp nose looked sharper. "You'll be goin' back to the Church next," she added conclusively. "But Charles is a Baptist," said Catherine. "A Baptist? A Baptist?" cried the other; "he's nothin'--not him--but a lukewarm Christian. And you who might have been married to Heber!" She looked at the girl as though she were dust beneath her feet; she could not understand her. She had never yet mentioned Black Heber's name to the harassed little bride-elect; but she seemed likely to make up for that omission now. "_That_ was a man," she went on, "not a soft, blow-hot-an'-cold fellow that could behave to ye like Saunders behaved at Bethesda! Heber's a man of his word, an' you broke your word to him, an' Saunders broke his word to you; yes, an' will again too. If he can't keep faith wi' his sweetheart what'll he do with his wife?" "But he's a very good-living man," began Catherine. "That may be," cried Mrs. Job, raising her voice; "but there's no religion in him! He don't care for nothin' but his cattle an' his money an' his buyin' an' sellin' an' layin' up riches. What's the use o' that when his heart's proud before God an' the truth's not in him? Maybe ye'll live to find it out, girl. An' when ye do, don't come to me. Don't tell me I didn't warn ye. This is a sad night for ye, Catherine Dennis, an' to-morrow may be a sadder day, if I'm not mistaken. "But I've warned ye," she said, rising; "an' may be the Lord robbed ye o' your sleep this night that I might bring home the warning." She lifted the latch and paused on the threshold, looking back into the room like some ominous, uncouth shadow between Catherine and the star-set night outside. Her steps were audible crossing the space between the barn and her own house, and the bang of the door, and the loud scrape of the key as she locked it, had a suggestive finality that awed the listener sitting alone with the guttering candle.