Then old Colpus shouted after Mehetabel, who was departing by the lane. "Don't go that way, over the field is the path--by the stile. There's a lot o' water in the lane." The young mother turned, thanked him with an inclination of the head, and pressing her cheek to the child she bore, she took the path that crossed a meadow, and which led to a tuft of holly, near which was the stile, into the lane. She walked on, with her cheek resting on the child's head, and her eyes on the trodden, cropped wintry grass, with a flutter of hope in her bosom; for she was almost certain that with the influence of Polly engaged on her side, old Colpus would agree to receive her. She did not walk swiftly. She had no occasion for haste. She hoped that the objections of the farmer would give way before she had reached the hedge, and that he would recall her. She had almost arrived t the turf of holly, singing in a low tone to the child in her arms, when, a voice made her start and cry out. She looked up. Jonas was before her. Unobserved by her he had entered the field. From the lane he had seen her, and he had crossed the stile and come upon her. She stood frozen to the spot. Each muscle became rigid; the blood in her arteries tingled as though bees were making their way through every vein. Her brows met in a black band across her face. She trembled for a moment, and then was firm. A supreme moment, the supreme moment in her life was come. "So I have found you at last," sneered Jonas. Hatred, fury, were in him and sent a quiver through the tones of his voice. "Yes, you have found me," she answered with composure. "You--do you know what you have done? Made me a derision and a talk to all Thursley, a jest in every pot-house." "I have not done this. It is your doing." "Is it not enough that I have lost my money, but must I have this scandal and outrage in my home?" She did not answer him. She looked steadily at him, and he dared not meet her eyes. "You must come with me at once," he said. "I will not go with you." "I will make you." "That you cannot." "You are mad. You must be put under restraint." "I will go to the madhouse, but not to the Punch-Bowl." "You shall be forced to return." "How?" "I will have you tied. I will swear you are crazed. I will have you locked up, and I will beat you till you learn to obey and behave as I would have you." "Jonas," said Mehetabel, "this is idle talk. Never, never will I go back to you." "Never!" He approached, his eyes glaring, his white fangs showing, like those of a dog about to bite. Instinctively she put her hand into her pocket and drew forth a lump of ironstone, that she had brandished the previous evening before Sally Rocliffe and Giles Cheel; and which she carried with her as her only weapon of defence. "Jonas," said Mehetabel. "You may threaten, but your threats do not move me. I can defend myself." "Oh, with a stone? he scoffed.