“Yigh, ma’am, little Teddy down yon fro’ Frith’s farm coom up wi’ the milk—hoo couldn’t fotch it for hersel’ for two-three weeks afore hoo died—he hommered at door and couldna get no answer, and then he run round to window, and theer he found her, poor body, leein’ close under it on her face. He ran down to farm and they coom and brok’ oppen door and fotched doctor, but doctor said hoo’d been dead for mony hours. . . . Dunnot tak’ on ma’am”—for I was weeping—“coom in and set yo’ down. I doubt it giv’ yo’ a turn to hear o’ poor Molly goin’ that way. But we’ll all ha’ to go when we’re turn cooms,” she added philosophically. Wiping my eyes I went into the little kitchen which I remembered so well; its aspect was changed and modernised. A gay square of oil-cloth covered the tiled floor, the walls were decked with gaudily coloured pictures; Molly’s great elbow-chair was gone, and in its place stood a horsehair covered sofa. “Ah, we’s all ha’ to go when we’re turn cooms,” repeated my new hostess with the gloomy relish, with which your rustic enunciates such statements; “and Molly, hoo were fain to goo. Onybody could see that as coom to see her laid out—so peaceful hoo looked, wi’ a smile upon her face.” “She was found under the window you say?” “Ah! Her knittin’ wur throwed on the floor nigh to her cheer, and hoo’d knocked down a stool on the way to the window—doctor said hoo’d wanted to oppen it and let in fresh air, very likely—for her arms were stretched out towards it. But hoo didn’t ha’ time, poor soul, hoo was took afore hoo could get theer. Eh, dear, yes. That was the very way they found her, lyin’ on her face wi’ her arms stretched out, and smilin’—smilin’ quite joyful like.” So there had been no fear at the last—no fear either of Will himself or of the grim comrade who had accompanied him. Molly’s presentiment had been realised; the much loved spirit of her husband had come to seek and sustain her in the last solemn moment. Stormy youth and lonely middle-age had alike been forgotten; for Molly the end had been peace. And as I took my way homewards to the sound of the gentle lapping waves, I thought of her, not as she had described herself to me, handsome, wilful, impetuous; not as I had seen her, expectant, regretful—not even starting forward at the sound of the well-known signal, or lying prone with outstretched arms upon the floor. No, I pictured to myself the placid face smiling on the pillow, the folded hands at rest, every line of the quiet figure bearing the imprint of a peace that would never more be broken. APRIL FOOLS