"No, I didn't go to Canada—not at all. That was all a make-up, just to stop talk. We stopped a good bit where we were after we were married." "Where was it?" "We stopped abroad—all the time till my husband died. And then I went to Norfolk." "And all these years you've been deceivin' me. And I thought you true, Molly. Whatever your faults might be, I've judged you true." "I couldn't help it," she said. "There was reasons why I couldn't say more; and there's reasons now." Morris was staring about the room. "There's the picture I painted and gev to you, Molly," he remarked. "I gev it you when I went off to Canada—thinkin' as you'd come after me." "I didn't know my own mind then." "And they told you I was drowned. Who said it?" "I heard it. And after that, I wrote to uncle here. I'd never been sure before that you wouldn't turn up, and say I wasn't your wife." Jane broke in with a jarring laugh. "And this—" she said, taking up the shut frame which Mrs. Brutt had noticed,—"we thought it was our father, and it isn't. Mother never showed it to us, till we came to Wyldd's Farm. We couldn't think why." Mrs. Morris offered no explanation. "It's me, anyway," said Morris. "But I ain't your father, my dear. Shouldn't mind if I was." Jane giggled, and Winnie shivered. Farmer Paine could not get over the blow. His straightforward nature recoiled at the thought of this long deliberate deceit. He had trusted Molly utterly; and at one blow his trust was shattered. With him, to doubt once was to doubt always. He would never again, after this, put confidence in her. Besides, he recognised that she had not told him all. She was shuffling; hiding something still. Questionings thronged upon him. Why should she have pretended that she had been married to this man, when she had not? Why should she have passed all these years under his name? Why should she have displayed his painting, his likeness, as of her husband? Why should she have made believe to have gone to Canada? Why should she never have revealed her whereabouts, even to her nearest relatives, till years after her husband's death? The whole tissue of lies seemed so needless, so foolish, over and above the actual wrong-doing. Each new aspect increased the mystery of her conduct. The more he thought, the more his spirit was stirred within him. It was at this juncture that Mr. Stirling, on his way from the Rectory, arrived at the farm. Finding doors open, and his ring unnoticed, he walked into the midst of them. "How do you do?" were his first words. His glance passed carelessly over the stranger. "This is Phil Morris, sir," spoke the farmer. "That we all thought dead. That we thought was her husband!" He indicated his niece with a backward twist of his thumb. Jane laughed once more, and the man snickered feebly. "Eh? What do you say?" Mr. Stirling turned sharply, and his eyes sent forth a lightning-flash.