One Sunday evening, when she had gone out to stretch her cramped legs, she heard the sound of singing come from the Bethel. She had never been inside except for Tom’s marriage, but now in a sudden softening of her heart she thought she would go in. She opened the door, and slid into an empty pew—of which there was a big choice. Mr. Sumption stood swaying and heating time in the pulpit, while before him his mean congregation of Bourners and Hubbles sang— “Let Christian faith and hope dispel The signs of guilt and woe” ... The air was heavy with the smell of lamp oil and Sunday clothes and the rot of the plaster walls. Nell sat, a little timid, in the corner of her pew. The scene was strange and grotesque to her, yet rather kindly. She thought Mr. Sumption looked ill and worn. She was shocked at his haggard smile, at the unhealthy smouldering of his eyes.... All Sunday Street knew that he was in trouble again about Jerry, who had not written for two months; but the village had come to look upon it as Mr. Sumption’s natural state to be in trouble about his son, and Nell felt there must be something worse than usual to account for his altered looks. Her own sadness made her soft and gentle towards him, and she watched him with pitying eyes. The service ended, and Mr. Sumption came down to the chapel door, where he waited to shake hands with his departing congregation. Nell, with her ignorance of chapel ritual, had not expected this, and was a little flustered by it. Now he must inevitably know of her presence, which she had not meant. But there was no help for it, so she held out her hand in her gentle, well-bred manner as she passed him in the doorway. He gave a start of surprise. “I never expected to see you here,” he said. “I was passing ... and I thought the music sounded pretty ... so I came in,” faltered Nell. “Yes—the music’s pretty,” he said absently, and she thought his voice sounded hoarse as if from a recent cold. Then her eyes met his, and each seemed to read the other’s pain. Drawn together by a mystic community of suffering, they stood for a moment in silence, still holding hands. She felt his grip tighten on hers, and her throat suddenly swelled with tears. They blinded her as she went out into the dusk. 6 Shortly before Christmas Mrs. Beatup decided that Steve Kadwell had “intentions.” He was now back at Eastbourne, but came over to Worge every Sunday, and after little more than half an hour beside a crushed and plaintive Mus’ Beatup would sit in the kitchen till it was time to go home. “Never shows the end of his nose to ’em at Stilliands Tower,” said Mrs. Beatup. “Reckon thur’s someone here he liks better.” “Do you mean me?” asked Nell wearily.