The state in which Urith was alarmed Bessie. She tried in vain to cheer her; every effort, and they were various in kind, failed. The condition of Urith resembled that of one oppressed with sleep before consciousness passes away. When her attention was called by a question addressed to her pointedly by name, or by a touch, she answered, but she relapsed immediately into her former state. She could be roused to no interest in anything. Bessie spoke to her about domestic matters, about the rebellion of the Duke of Monmouth, about the departure of Mr. Crymes, finally, after some hesitation, about her own marriage, but she said nothing concerning the conduct of Fox on the preceding evening, or of her desertion of the home of her childhood. Urith listened dreamily, and forgot at once what had been told her. Her mind was susceptible to no impressions, so deeply indented was it with her own sorrows. Luke, so said Mistress Penwarne, had been to see her, and had spoken of sacred matters; but Urith had replied to him that she had killed Anthony, that she did not regret having done so, and that therefore she could neither hope in nor pray to God. This Mrs. Penwarne told Bessie, standing over Urith, well aware that what she said passed unheeded by the latter, probably unheard by her. Nothing but a direct appeal could force Urith to turn the current of her thoughts, and that only momentarily, from the direction they had taken. "She has been biting her hands again," said Mrs. Penwarne. "Bessie, when she does that, pull out the token that hangs on her bosom and put it into her palm. She will sit and look at that by the hour. She must be broken of that trick." Urith slowly stood up, with a ruffle of uneasiness on her dull face. She was conscious that she was being discussed, without exactly knowing what was said about her. Without a word of explanation, she went out, drawing Bessie with her, who would not let go her hand; and together, in silence, they passed through the court and into the lane. Their heads were uncovered, and the wind was fresh and the sun shone brightly. Urith walked leisurely along the lane, accompanied by Bessie Cleverdon, between the moorstone walls, thick-bedded with pink and white flowering saxifrage, and plumed with crimson foxgloves. She looked neither to right nor to left till she reached the moor-gate closing the lane, a gate set there to prevent the escape of the cattle from their upland pasturage. The gate was swung between two blocks of granite, in which sockets had been cut for the pivot of the gate to swing. Urith put forth her hand, thrust open the gate, and went on. It was characteristic of her condition that she threw it open only wide enough to allow herself to pass through, and Bess had to put forth her disengaged hand to check the gate from swinging back upon her. This was not due to rudeness on the part of Urith, but to the fact that Urith had forgotten that any one was with her.