With a shriek of horror, Mehetabel sprang out of bed and rushed at him, stayed his arms, and unable to thrust them back, caught the cradle and plucked it to her, and released the babe, that gasped--seized it in her arms, glued it to her bosom, and dashing past Jonas before he had risen to his feet, ran down the stairs, and left the house--never to enter it again. CHAPTER XXXVIII. SHUT OUT. A raw gray morning. Mehetabel had run forth into it with nothing over her head, no shawl about her shoulders, with hair tangled, and eyes dazed, holding her child to her heart, with full resolve never again to set foot across the threshold of the farmhouse of Jonas Kink. No doubt whatever remained now in her mind that the Broom-Squire had endeavored to compass the death of his child, first by means of poison, and then by suffocation. Nothing would ever induce her again to risk the precious life of her child at his hands. She had no thought whither she should go, how she should live--her sole thought was to escape from Jonas, and by putting a distance between herself and him, place the infant beyond danger. As she ran up the lane from the house she encountered Sally Rocliffe at the well head. "Where be you goyne to, like that; and with the child, too?" asked the woman. Mehetabel drew the little face of the babe to her, lest the eye of its aunt should light on it. She could not speak, palpitating with fear, as she was. "What be you runnin' out for this time o' the mornin'?" asked Mrs. Rocliffe again. "I cannot tell you," gasped the mother. "But I will know." "I shall never, never go back again," cried Mehetabel. "Oh! he's kicked you out, has he? That's like Jonas." "I'm runnin' away. "And where be yo goyne to?" "I don't know." "But I do," said Mrs. Rocliffe with a chuckle. Mehetabel gave no thought to her words. She thrust past her, and ran on. Fear, love, gave strength to her limbs. She had no consideration for herself, that she was dishevelled and incompletely clad, that she had eaten nothing; she sped up the side of the Common, to escape from the Punch-Bowl, the place where she had weltered in misery. There was no hope for her and her child till she had escaped from that. In the cold air, charged with moisture, the larks were singing. A ploughboy was driving his horses to the field that was to be turned up by the share. As she passed him he stared at her with surprise. She reached the village. The blacksmith was up and about; he was preparing to put a tire on a cart-wheel. For this purpose he had just kindled a fire of turf "bats," that were heaped round the fire on the ground outside the forge. He looked up with astonishment as Mehetabel sped past, and cast to her the question, "Wot's up?" which, however, she did not stay to answer.