"I am well now," she cries, with feverish eagerness. "Go on--go on!" He answers, with a determination, that he will not proceed until she has taken something to sustain her strength--a cup of tea, a little brandy, anything--and she is compelled to yield. He knocks at the cottage door. A labourer opens it. The young gardener explains the nature of his errand, and produces money. "You are in luck's way," says the labourer. "The missus has just made herself a cup of tea." His wife turns her head, with a reproachful look, towards the door, the opening of which has brought a blast of cold air into the room. She is kneeling by a cradle at the fireside, and with common, homely words of love is singing her baby to sleep. Nelly catches her breath as the song and its meaning fall upon her ears and understanding, and in an agony of agitation she begs the young gardener to take her away. The tears stream down her cheeks, and her face is convulsed as she thus implores him. The soft sweet song of the mother has cut into her heart with the sharp keenness of cruelly-edged steel. "Let me go," she cries wildly, "let me go! O my heart, my heart!" The labourer's wife comes hurriedly forward, still with the mother's love-light in her eyes. But instead of speaking soothing words to the girl, she exclaims, "Lord save us! What brings you out on such a night as this, and where do you belong to? You ought to be ashamed of yourself"--(this to the young gardener)--"carrying the poor child about in such a condition!" "Ay, ay, dame," replies the young gardener, gently, with an observant glance at Nelly, a glance which brings a troubled look into his own face; "it _is_ a bitter night----" Nelly stops his further speech, and putting her arm about the woman's neck, whispers to her. The young gardener turns his back upon the women, and the labourer sits on a chair, with his eyes to the ground. For a minute or so the men do not stir from the positions they have assumed; then, as though moved by a common thought, they step softly from the cottage, and stand in silence outside for many minutes, until the wife comes to the door, and beckons them in. Nelly is on her knees by the cradle. "Get along as quick as you can," whispers the labourer's wife to the young gardener; "there's little time to lose." There are tears on her face, and on Nelly's also, as she rises from her knees. "God bless you, my dear!" says the woman to the unhappy girl; and when Nelly and her protector have departed, she turns to her husband, and kisses his weather-worn face, with a grateful feeling in her breast, to which she could not have given expression in speech. But words are not needed at this moment. In the meanwhile the travellers are speeding onwards. "Only four miles to go now," says the young gardener, cheerfully; "keep up your strength." Nelly nods, and hides her face from her companion. It might make _his_ heart faint to see the suffering depicted there.