But on the Sunday afternoon, from the train that passed Timberdale from Worcester about the time folks came out of church, there descended a poor, weak woman (looking like a girl too) in a worn shawl that was too thin for the weather. She waited until the roads should be clear, as if not wanting to be seen, and then wrapped the shawl close around her arms and went out with her black veil down. It was Lucy Bird. And she was so pretty still, in spite of the wan thin cheeks and the faded clothes! There were two ways of getting to Jael Batty's from the station. She took the long and obscure one, and in turning the corner of the lane between the church and Timberdale Court, she met Robert Ashton. But for her own movement, he might never have noticed her. It was growing dusk; and when she saw him coming, she turned sharp off to a stile and stood as if looking for something in the field. There's not much to stare at in a ploughed field at dusk, as Ashton of Timberdale knew, and he naturally looked at the person who had gone so fast to do it. Something in the cut of the shoulders struck him as being familiar, and he stopped. "Lucy! Is it you?" Of course it was no use her saying it was not. She burst into tears, trembling and shaking. Robert passed round her his good strong arm. He guessed what had brought her to Timberdale. "Lucy, my dear, have you come over from Worcester?" "Yes," she sobbed. "I shall be better in a minute, Robert. I am a little tired, and the train shook me." "You should have sent me word, and I would have had a fly at the station." Sent him word! It was good of Robert to pretend to say that; but he knew that she wouldn't have presumed to do it. It was that feeling on Lucy's part that vexed him so much. Since Bird had turned out the villain that he had, Lucy acted, even to her own family, as though she had lost caste, identifying herself with her husband, and humbling herself to them. What though she was part and parcel with the fellow, as Robert said, she was not responsible for his ill-doings. "Lean on me, Lucy. You must have a good rest." "Not that way," she said at the bottom of the lane, as he was turning to the Court. "I am going to Jael Batty's." "When you have had some rest and refreshment at home." "I cannot go to your home, Robert." "Indeed but you can; and will," he answered, leading her on. "I would rather not. Your wife may not care to receive me." "Come and try her." "Robert, I am not fit to see any one: I am not indeed. My spirits are low now, and I often burst into tears for nothing. I have been praying, all the way over, not to meet you. After what was done to you at our house but a week or two ago, I did not expect ever to have been noticed by you again. Jane must hate me."