And he--left alone in the darkening autumn evening, which was all the more dark and still within the church--he flung himself over the backs of the nearest seats, and lay there with his arms hanging down, and his face towards the ground, a shadowy, strangely extended figure in the gloom. He did not move, he was too miserable to move, he could not rouse himself to either tears or prayers. Some tears gathered slowly at length, so slowly that they could not fall--he dropped to his feet, and stole out into the night. CHAPTER XXV TIM AND ANNIE WHILST Nat lay alone in the dark church the lamp had been lighted for the evening in his home, and in the room with yellow rafters Tim sat by Annie’s side. It was the first time he had seen her since the summer morning when he had gone to visit her with anxiety in his heart. That anxiety had now become unspeakable pain and dread; but it was at least some comfort to be by her side again. And that comfort was all the greater because Annie was so gentle, so much more gentle than he had expected her to be. Her old fierceness appeared to have deserted her; she had the patience, the languor of an invalid. Upon her shoulders her beautiful hair was resting--she excused herself for its condition by saying that she had been too weak to fasten it--and her wan, delicate cheek leant upon her hand as she sat and looked into the fire. Tim had never seen her in such a mood before; he sat down by her side, but he could not speak to her. ‘Mother’s gone out,’ said Annie, speaking softly, ‘I don’t know when she’ll be back. But it won’t be long .... I’m not sorry. I wanted to think. I can’t think while she is near.’ And then, as if afraid that he would misunderstand her and be vexed, she raised her dark eyes almost timidly, and looked at him. ‘It _is_ good of you to come and see me, Tim,’ she said. Tim felt his heart throb, and a lump rose in his throat; he did not say a word, but he held out his hand to her. Her left hand was the nearest; and, taking hold of it, his eyes caught sight of the gleam of her wedding-ring. As he started, he knew that she had observed his glance. Very gently she tried to draw away her hand, but he held it tightly, though he did not look at her. ‘Annie--Annie?’ the words sounded like a cry; they were an appeal, a question that he could not express otherwise. She did not attempt now to release her hand, but she put up her other hand and veiled her eyes. ‘Do they talk much of me .... in the village?’ she whispered; and he could see that slow tears were falling down her face. He could not answer otherwise than by his silence; no words seemed gentle enough to express what that silence meant. ‘They say I’m a bad girl .... they say I’ve shamed my mother .... I know they say so, though mother will not tell me so .... They willent forget as they found me o’ the door-step; I shall never have any credit here again.’