Were the words ominous? He had arrived near her without her hearing him, so occupied had her mind been. As he spoke she uttered a cry of alarm. "Afraid?" he asked. "Of what?" She did not answer. She was trembling. Perhaps her nerves had been overwrought. The Punch-Bowl looked to her like the Bottomless Pit. "Did you think one of the dead men had got up from under the gallows, and had come down to talk with you?" She did not speak. She could not. "It's all a pass'l o' nonsense," he said. "When the dead be turned into dust they never come again except as pertaties or the like. There was Tim Wingerlee growed won'erful fine strawberries; they found out at last he took the soil in which he growed 'em from the churchyard. I don't doubt a few shovelfuls from under them gallows 'ud bring on early pertaties--famous. Now then, get up into the cart." "I'd rather walk, Jonas. The way down seems critical. It is dark in the Bowl, and the ruts are deep." "Get up, I say. There is no occasion to be afraid. It won't do to drive among our folk, to our own door, me alone, and you trudgin', totterin' behind. Get up, I say." Mehetabel obeyed. There was a fragrance of fern in the night air that she had inhaled while walking. Now by the side of Bideabout she smelt only the beer and stale tobacco that adhered to his clothes. "I am main glad," said he, "that all the hustle-bustle is over. I'm glad I'm not wed every day. Fust and last time I hopes. The only good got as I can see, is a meal and drink at the landlord's expense. But he'll take it out of me someways, sometime. Folks ain't liberal for nuthin'. 'Tain't in human nature." "It is very dark in the Punch-Bowl," said Mehetabel. "I do not see a glimmer of a light anywhere." "That's becos the winders ain't looking this way. You don't suppose it would be a pleasure to have three dead men danglin' in the wind afore their eyes all day long. The winders look downward, or else there's a fold of the hill or trees between. But I know where every house is wi'out seeing 'em. There's the Nashes', there's the Boxalls', there's the Snellings', there's my brother-in-law's, Thomas Rocliffe's, and down there be I." He pointed with his whip. Mehetabel could distinguish nothing beyond the white favor bound to his whip. "We're drivin to Paradise," said Jonas. And as to this remark she made no response, he explained--"Married life, you know." She said nothing. "It rather looks as if we were going down to the other place," he observed, with a sarcastic laugh. "But there it is, one or the other--all depends on you. It's just as you make it; as likely to be one as the other. Give me that fifteen pounds--and Paradise is the word." "Indeed, Jonas, do you not understand that I cannot go against father's will and my word?" The road, or rather track, descended along the steep side of the Punch-Bowl, notched into the sand falling away rapidly on the left hand, on which side sat Mehetabel.