'Bless them,' said Scilla, her eyes filling; 'and another baby too. But oh, Miss Anna, I want a word with you. Come along, though. Don't let us stand or she'll maybe guess what I'm telling you. Father told me I never had to tell you, no, not if she did it again and again. He hates every one since poor Kit's punishment, and he'd help ruin any one that had aught to do with the Admiral. But I made up my own mind I'd tell if Mrs. Severn ever came here again and asked for---- She's going away with you but that doesn't matter, she's been and she may come again. Miss Anna, the last time she was here she got to a bottle of father's----' Her voice sank. Her eyes fixed themselves on Anna's, mutely imploring her to understand and yet not to be overwhelmed. Yes, she did understand. There was an anguished shame in her whole face. They were walking slowly on. Just before reaching the cottage Anna said in a low voice-- 'I did not know Hartas knew, Scilla. Dinah told me, she thought it right to do so, and it was right. Have you ever told any one?' 'Never, Miss Anna; not even Kit. Dearest Miss Anna, she's asked for some to-day. I made pretence we'd none by us. She'd soon have sent for some. And that's what's been my fear, that she should get hold of Jimmy Chapman or one of the little ones and send them. Then all t' Mires would have known and a deal o' folk beside.' 'Do you think Hartas has told any one?' 'I don't think so,' she said; adding reluctantly, 'I sometimes fancy if he hasn't, he's biding his time, he's none one to let bad things drop.' To Anna's relief and yet almost to her terror she found that Hartas was out. Hartas Kendrew, primed with this knowledge, had already become a power, a factor in her life; she would constantly be wondering and fearing what, involuntarily in his drunken fits or of malice prepense, he might disclose. Scilla's little kitchen was empty of life, but for a kitten curled up on the langsettle, fast asleep. The flagged floor was bordered with a design in pipeclay, which Scilla renewed once a week. Some samplers hung in frames upon the walls between groups of memorial cards of various sizes. On the high mantel was a row of five copper kettles, all polished into a glint of gold, and above them two guns on crockets. A line of freshly-ironed clothes hung across the ceiling; some worsted stockings were drying off over the oven-door; the ironing blanket lay still unfolded on the table but had one corner turned over to make room for some cups and saucers and a rhubarb pasty. Scilla had made tea but no one would have any.