"But listen, Jean--it was very horrible; but I saw all, and I shall tell some day when it is time. I saw the Jarker strike the preacher down, for I had been watching too. I came back late, and saw the Jarker and hid myself; because he is a savage, and I would not meet him by night never since I knew his secret; but when I was hid, and he had struck down the preacher, I saw him run this way to cross the road, but the painted woman dash at him and hold him, fighting fiercely with him, till I would have helped her--but I was old and weak, Jean. Then he struck her down, Jean--such a coward, cruel blow--but she clung to his legs, and he kicked her, so that I hear his boot upon her poor head, and I felt sick, Jean, but I dare not speak; and as he came closer I shrunk in the doorway and watched, for he ran into the court; but the painted woman was up, and ran again, and caught hold of him, and held on, and I could hear her say just inside the court there, `Give me my child, give me my child!' and he struck her down again. But once more she held to his legs gasping, and saying, `My child, give me my child!' and in her fierce, angry way she seemed to crawl and wind up him like a serpent, while--ah, Jean, I am old and coward, and I shivered and trembled to see it all. There was no noise, only the fierce whisper, `Give me my child!' and the struggling, and I saw him strike at her again and again in the face, while she held her poor head down in his breast that he should not hit her; till at last they fell, and I heard her poor head strike the stones, and I sink down on the passage-floor, Jean, for I could not bear it, and I don't know how long for, but when I look out again there was nothing in the court--nothing but the miserable light-- and I dare not go out and see, Jean, for I was frightened. I think perhaps he killed her, poor painted woman, and I am sorry, for she loved her child as I love you, Jean, and would die for you; but stop, and then the police shall know, and they will take him--but not yet. Poor painted woman! I have not seen her since, and the preacher has her child. And it is not ungrateful like you, Jean. Ah! do I not cry long hours for you, and you do not mind, for you think always of the doll, and I hate her. She coaxed you from me with her soft white skin and her cat's ways. She is deceitful, and tries to make the preacher marry her; but he shall not yet, for I will tell him something that shall frighten him. But there, bah! let him marry her, and take, too, her old imbecile of a father and the weak, crying mother--let him marry them all. But you--you shall be rich, Jean, and keep no more birds. You shall have doctors, and get rid of your crutch, and people will be proud to know you." But Jean spoke not; only sat listening to his mother's words as he built up some bright future and thought of Lucy Grey.