And when Hogarth twisted round, with that stare of his large and bloodshot eye, “Here”, said the old man, “take them”--holding out a basket of herrings. Hogarth seemed not to understand, but then said: “All those for me?” “Every bloomin' one!” answered Bates, with the dropped jaw of pantomime, and a far-away look of blue astonishment which he had. “It is extremely handsome of you. Can you spare all that--?” “Spare, _ya'as!_ They're easy enough come by, for that matter. Why, the day's work of a fisherman gives him enough fish to live on all the week, and he could lie around idling the other six days, if he chose, only anybody can't live on nothing but fish “. These words, destined to produce a horror of great darkness, and a cup of trembling of which all the nations should drink, hardly affected Hogarth at the time. He _did_, indeed, shoot an interested glance at the old man, but the next moment his mind, numb that morning, was left dark. “Here--take them--they are yours”, said Bates. “But with regard to that God-forsaken son of mine: you'll be givin' evidence agen him, I'm told--” When his sleeve wiped a tear, Hogarth promised to make his evidence mild, and was left alone. Now his purpose of cleaning the rifle was turned: he went back to the forge, and worked till Margaret, at one o'clock, called: “The dinner is on the table”. At that table, for a long time, silence reigned, Margaret's eyes fixed on his face, his on his plate. Toward the end he said: “Are you going to chapel to-night?” Her bosom heaved; she cleared her throat: she had to meet Frankl by the towing-path. “I don't think I shall...” _Margaret!_ “Why not?” “I have something to do”. “_What?_” Silence. “_What?_” “Something”--with a stubborn nod, and pallor--“if I tell you _something_ that should be enough”. “You will go to chapel to-night”. “That I shan't”. “Yes” Silence. A little before seven they left the cottage together for the chapel, Hogarth taking his hunting-crop--from habit; he had also a little Bible; in his jacket, tight at the slight waist, unbuttoned at the breast, lay the anonymous letter, and a little poetry-book, neither moon nor star lighting the night, bleak winds swooping like the typhoon among the year's dead leaves. The chapel was a paltry place, though in the wall to the right of the preacher was a slab bearing the inscription: ON THIS STONE JOHN WESLEY PREACHED IN THE VILLAGE, ON THE 9TH JULY 1768 And they sang a hymn; Hogarth “prayed”; read a chapter; once more the harmonium mourned; Hogarth gave the text: “God's way is in the sea...” Even as he uttered it, he happened to glance toward the “mission-pew”--a square pew rather behind the pulpit: Margaret no longer there. A paleness as of very death--then a dreadful wrath reddened his dark face. He seized his hunting-crop; and, without a word, sped bent and thievish down the steps--and was gone.