One, however, there was. Police-Constable Stalker, all the more because public opinion was now ranged definitely on the other side, persisted that Inman was an injured man; and he set aside the wrong done to Swithin’s granddaughter as a venial offence which many of the master-carpenter’s critics had good reason for condoning if they would but examine their own secret records. The suggestion that the Drakes owed their troubles to the same agency he dismissed with the cryptic assertion that “them ’at lives t’ longest’ll see t’ most;” and he allowed it to be understood that he was devising a trap which would provide the neighbourhood with a climax in sensations if all went well. The accident which meanwhile kept Inman a prisoner was a misfortune that individual heartily cursed. The extent of it nobody knew but himself, for his wife’s offer of help was refused with an emphasis that forbade repetition. In plain words she was told to keep away from his room, and even Keturah’s ministrations were declined. “He’s damaged his leg; that’s what he’s done,” said the woman. “He can hardly shift himself off o’ t’ bed. It caps me he doesn’t send for t’ doctor.” Nancy was indifferent. Although she was moving about again she was still weak, and too dispirited to concern herself over the ailment or attitude of a man who hated her. His rough dismissal had been, indeed, a relief, and afforded her a sense of freedom and an opportunity for its enjoyment which were as welcome as they were unexpected. Her baby’s death had left her without an interest in life, and it had done more: it had half-persuaded her that it was useless to fight against fate. “A Clegg wife And it’s sorrow or strife!” In her case the burden was double-weighted: it was sorrow and strife. Well, she was young, and by and by would be herself again; if sorrow was to be her lot she would bear it without complaining, and if strife—she would not be trodden on by any man. She was young and she was also strong; and with the coming of the bright cold days, when the frost silvered the landscape until the warm sun swept the white dust away into the shadows Nancy’s limbs regained their vigour though her spirits remained low. Keturah would have kept her from Polly’s funeral if she could; but Nancy’s mind was made up. “I wonder you can shame to go,” the older woman said, “and your own husband, more’s the pity, t’ cause of all t’ trouble. I should want to hide my head i’ my apron if it was me.” “I’ll go _because_ he’s my husband,” Nancy replied. “They all know me, and they knew he married me for my money. If poor Polly had had money he’d never have looked my way, and it might have saved us both. If only I could have seen the road that lay before me she could have had mine and welcome.”