"I döan't know what I'm to do, my dear," he mumbled; "I think the best thing 'ud be fur me to git work on a farm somewheres away from here, and then maybe in time I cud put a liddle bit of money by, and you cud join me." "Oh, döan't leave me, Robert." For the first time the courage dimmed in her eyes. "Wot else am I to do?" he exclaimed wretchedly; "'täun't even as if I cud go on seeing you here. Oh, Bessie! I can't even täake you to the Fair on Thursday!" "Wot does a liddle thing lik that count when it's all so miserable?" "Disposer Supreme, And judge of the earth, Who choosest for thine The weak and the poor...." The anthem crashed gaily into their sorrow, and grasping the hymn-sheet they sang together. "Wöan't you be never coming here no more?" whispered Bessie in the next pause. "Depends on if my fäather catches me or not." He drank in the heat and stuffiness of the little room as a man might drink water in a desert, not knowing when the next well should be. He loved it, even to the smoke-stains on the sagging rafters, to the faint smell of onions that pervaded it all. "All honour and praise, Dominion and might, To God, Three in One, Eternally be, Who round us hath shed His own marvellous light, And called us from darkness His glory to see." Young Ralph Bardon had come into the room, and stood by the door while the last verse was being sung. He was there to give an invitation from his father, for every year the Squire provided the choristers with a mild debauch at Flightshot. Robert had been to several of these, and they glittered in his memory--the laughter and games, the merry fooling, the grand supper table gay with candles. What a joke it had been when someone had given the salt to Rosie Hubble instead of the sugar to eat with her apple pie, and when some other wag had pulled away Ern Ticehurst's chair from under him.... "Thank you, sir--thank you kindly." The invitation had been given, and the choristers were crowding towards the door. Robert followed them mechanically. It was raining hard. "Oh, dear, oh, dear," said Bessie, "I never brought my cloak." "You must put on my coat." He began taking it off when he heard someone beside them say: "I have a great-coat here." Robert turned round and faced Bardon, whose eyes rested approvingly on the gleaming froth of Bessie's hair. "I'm driving home in my gig with a rug and hood," continued the young man, "so I've no need of a great-coat as well." Robert opened his mouth to refuse. He was offended by the way the Squire looked at Bessie. But on second thoughts he realised that this was no reason for depriving her of a wrap; his own coat was too short to be much good. After all he could see that the acquaintance went no further. Bessie had, however, already taken the matter out of his hands by saying--"Thank you kindly, sir."