“’Ees, take them harses up to the top o’ the drill, and then I’ll talk to ’ee.” Frizzell admonished his horses to proceed, and went plodding on up the rising ground along which he had traced his furrow, glancing round every now and then at the set face of his wife as she plodded in his rear. He was a big, blond, good-natured man, whose natural dulness of wit was intensified by his infirmity. When they reached the brow of the hill Martha slipped in front of him, and standing on tip-toe, cast a searching glance round. A flock of sheep was penned in a corner of the adjacent turnip-field, a few rooks were waddling up the furrows nearer at hand; over their heads a heron was slowly sailing with wide, sweeping wings on his way to the river, but not a human creature was in sight. “Well,” said John Frizzell as she turned towards him, “whatever be the matter, Missus? I wish you’d out wi’ it.” “I have had a letter from my cousin Julia, Father, and she have telled me some bad noos about our Susan.” John’s jaw dropped, and the colour forsook his face, leaving it pale beneath its tan. “Why—be the maid took ill?” he inquired with a gasp. “She bain’t well—and she bain’t like to be well. She’ve a-been ill-used, Father. There, the silly girl wouldn’t hearken to what I did al’ays tell her, an’ now she be sufferin’ for’t. She’ve been an’ took up wi’ a soldier, an’ so far as I can make out he made a purtence o’ marryin’ her; got some raskil to dress up as a minister, an’ put on the ring and all. The poor maid was sure she was married honest, but she kep’ it secret, for he dared her to tell any one wi’out he gave her leave. Well, an’ now he’ve a-gone off to the war, and left a letter for her sayin’ as how ’twere all humbug, an’ they wasn’t married at all, an’ hopin’ she’d forgive en.” “My God!” said the poor father, and he brought his hand down on the plough-handle with a force that made the mild horses start, “My God! I wish I had en here—I’d smash en!” “An’ that’s not all,” went on Mrs. Frizzell, in a choked voice; “there’s a little ’un upon the road—our daughter ’ull be disgraced afore the whole parish.” “Disgraced!” cried John, his honest face as red as it had before been pale, “who says _disgraced_! ’Tain’t no fault o’ the poor child’s! She’ve a-been deceived and used cruel hard. Nobody ’ull not have a word to say against _her_.” “Won’t they, though!” retorted his wife, who, though as sore at heart as he, thought it necessary to assume an aggressive tone. “Who do you suppose ’ull ever believe as the girl ’ud be so simple as to be took in and think herself married when she warn’t married? They don’t believe it in Darchester, I can tell ’ee. There, they’ve a-gone and sent her away from her situation; and Julia—why I can see as my own cousin Julia don’t half believe her story—she’ve wrote to say she ’opes I’ll come and take her away at once, as she don’t like her for to be comin’ to the house.”