But at present he could not speak. He gave a short wave of his hand to show that he heard, but could not answer yet, and with his head bent down made his way out through the end of the village on to the moor--Bill following him, wondering and sympathetic, unable to conjecture what had happened. Presently, when they had left the houses far behind them, Ned stopped. “What be't, Maister Ned?” Bill again asked, laying his strong hand upon Ned's shoulder; “tell oi what it be. Hast got in another row with t' maister? If there be owt as oi can do, thou knowest well as Bill Swinton be with thee heart and soul.” “I know, Bill--I know,” Ned said in a broken voice, “but you can do nothing; I can do nothing; no one can. But it's dreadful to think of. It's worse than if I had killed twenty masters. Only think--only think, Bill, my mother's going to marry Mulready!” “Thou doesn't say so, lad! What! thy mother marry Foxey! Oi never heer'd o' such a thing. Well, that be bad news, surely! Well, well, only to think, now! Poor lad! Well, that beats all!” The calamity appeared so great to Bill that for some time no idea occurred to him which could, under the circumstances, be considered as consolatory. But Ned felt the sympathy conveyed in the strong grasp of his shoulder, and in the muttered “Well, well, now!” to which Bill gave vent at intervals. “What bee'st going to do vor to stop it?” he asked at last. “What can I do, Bill? She won't listen to me--she never does. Anything I say always makes her go the other way. She wouldn't believe anything I said against him. It would only make her stick to him all the more. “Dost think,” Bill suggested after another long pause, “that if we got up a sort of depitation--Luke Marner and four or five other steady chaps as knows him; yes, and Polly Powlett, she could do the talking--to go to her and tell her what a thundering dad un he is--dost think it would do any good?” Even in his bitter grief Ned could hardly help smiling at the thought of such a deputation waiting upon his mother. “No, it wouldn't do, Bill.” Bill was silent again for some time. “Dost want un killed, Maister Ned?” he said in a low voice at last; “'cause if ye do oi would do it for ye. Oi would lay down my life for ye willing, as thou knowst; and hanging ain't much, arter all. They say 'tis soon over. Anyhow oi would chance it, and perhaps they wouldn't find me out.” Ned grasped his friend's hand. “I could kill him myself!” he exclaimed passionately. “I have been thinking of it; but what would be the good? I know what my mother is--when once she has made up her mind there's no turning her; and if this fellow were out of the way, likely enough she would take up with another in no time.” “But it couldn't been as bad as if wur Foxey,” Bill urged, “he be the very worsest lot about Marsden.” “I would do it,” Ned said passionately; “I would do it over and over again, but for the disgrace it would bring on Charlie and Lucy.”