They went on again in silence for a time. But there was that in young Job's mind which had to come out. "If 'twere me, Doctor, askin' your pardon in advance for bein' so bold, what I'd do would be this. I'd just sit quiet till they done yelpin' and yappin' 'bout it all, then I'd marry th' missus,--we all knows you was sweet on her once,--and settle down comfortable at th' Hall and tek over th' pack an' mek us all happy." "That's out of the question, Job." "Is it now? ... Well, I'm sorry. Wus hopin' mebbe a word of advice from a man what's old enough to be your feyther, an's known you since day you was born, might be o' some use to ye. We'd like you fain well for Master, both o' th' Hall an' th' Hunt." "You're a good old chap, Job, and so's your father, but you'll both be doing me a favour if you'll stop any talk of that kind." "No manner o' use?" "No use at all." "Well, I'm main sorry. An' so's feyther, I can tell ye." Mrs Carew was sitting in a large chintz-covered armchair before the fire in her bedroom, when he was taken up to her by Mollie, who favoured him with her own diagnosis as they mounted the stairs. "She's that bad again. Can't sleep and off her food. Ain't had hardly anything all day or yes'day. Just sits 'fore th' fire and mopes from morn'n till night. 'Taint natural for sure, for him 'at's gone weren't one to cry for, that's cert'n.... No, she don't complain of any pain or anything. Just sits and mopes and cries on the quiet 's if her heart was broke. Sure she'd more cause to cry before he was took than what she has now." When he entered the room he did not at first see her, so sunk down was she in the depths of the great ear-flapped chair. She made no attempt to rise and greet him. When he stood beside her and quietly expressed his regret at finding her no better, she covered her face with her hands and sobbed convulsively. She looked little more than a girl, slight and frail and forlorn, as she crouched there with hidden face, and he was truly sorry for her. It was impossible for him to keep the sympathy he felt entirely out of his voice. "What can I do for you, Mrs Carew?" he asked quietly, and the forlorn figure shook again but made no response. "You are doing yourself harm with all this," he said gently again. "And there is really no occasion for it, that I can see." Her silent extremity of grief--her utter discomfiture was pitiful to look upon. It touched him profoundly, for he penetrated the meaning of it. She was overwhelmed with the knowledge of the sacrifice he had made for her--and with pity for herself. All he could do was to wait quietly till the feeling, roused afresh by his presence, had spent itself. "Oh, I did not know," she whispered at last, through the shielding hands. "I did not know you would do that.... You have ruined yourself.... You should have let them hang me."