It was to this reason Jenny ascribed the fact that, just as she drew near to the village, there came over her the most strange desire to sleep, a desire so burning and so overmastering that to struggle against it seemed impossible. She told herself, after some efforts which proved to be in vain, that she would only rest for a moment, for a moment close her eyes--it seemed excusable to snatch a brief repose, since so little rest was possible at home. But perhaps she was more worn out than she had supposed herself to be, for as she set down her basket she almost dropped by its side--she lay on the slope of the ditch, half-supported by the basket, which partially raised her right arm and her head. The position was pleasant, or it seemed so to her exhaustion; her eyelids dropped eagerly, her head sank, and she slept .... How long she lay thus she had no means of knowing. She was roused by the sound of voices which seemed close to her ears. Half-startled, and yet too weak and stiff to move, she lifted herself against the basket on which she was leaning. Some time must have passed, for a thick mist had risen; and the moon, which had not been visible, was now high in the sky above the dark outlines of village roofs and chimneys, and the dim mass of the Squire’s trees on the hill. The voices were close to her, in the field beyond the ditch, and although they were almost in whispers she could hear every word. Exhausted, scarce conscious as she was, the sounds stole to her ears before she was even aware that she had heard them. ‘I tell you, Tina,’ one voice said to the other, ‘there is no need for all this excitement. I have done what you told me to do, although I hated to do it. I have seen her--I have seen Annie--Annie Salter, to-night.’ He had seen Annie--Annie Salter--it was her daughter’s name! A sudden, tingling thrill passed through Jenny as she lay. She attempted to rise, but she was not strong enough; she tried to speak, but her lips seemed to be held. She appeared to be in a dream, lying there in the darkness, with this strange voice near her that had pronounced her daughter’s name. And then, through the darkness, she heard the voice again, its sound more broken and agitated now. ‘I have seen her .... it was hateful .... the most hateful thing I have done. I should never have done it if it had not been for you .... I tried to remind her of the time when I first knew her, when I was staying near Warton, before you came there with me. She would only answer that I never loved her; she thrust me away when I tried to kiss her face. She would accept no money for herself or for the child; she said she would starve rather than take anything until I owned them both. But she said that she would not betray me .... I might go with you to my uncle .... I might leave her, as I had done already, to be alone with her wretchedness.’