Gradually the mother approached, with her baby in her arms, until she was within half-a-dozen yards of the wall. Then she leaned against the trunk of an old apple-tree, and would not come any further.

"Are you ill?" said Lettice, gently.

Again the half-heard "No," but this time accompanied by a sob.

"Then why are you out at this time, and with your poor little baby, too?

Have you walked far to-day?"

"From Thorley."

"Do you live at Thorley?"

"Not now."

"Where do you come from?"

"London."

"Let me see your baby. Is it hungry, or cold? Why do you keep so far away from me? and why are you crying? Oh, Milly, Milly! Is it you? Dear child, come to me!"

Then the girl came from amongst the branches of the tree, and tottered to the wall, and laid her child in the arms stretched out to receive it.

"Why did you not come to the door, Milly, instead of waiting out here?

You might have been sure of a welcome!"

She laid her hand on the head which was bowed down upon the wall, and which shook with the poor girl's sobs. Her bonnet had fallen off, and hung on her back; and Lettice noticed that the long hair of which the girl used to be so proud was gone.

"I did not come to the village till it was dark," Milly said, as soon as she could speak. "Then I should have knocked, but I saw you looking out at the window--and I was ashamed!"

"Ashamed?" said Lettice, in a low voice. There was one thing she thought, of which Milly could be ashamed. She looked from the weeping mother to the baby's face, and back again to Milly. "My poor girl," she said, with a sudden rush of tender feeling for the woman who had perhaps been tempted beyond her strength--so Lettice thought--"my poor child, you don't think _I_ should be unkind to you!"

"No, no! you were always so kind to me, miss. And I--I--was so wicked--so ungrateful--so deceitful----"

And with that she broke down utterly. Lettice's arms were round her neck, and the young mother, feeling herself in the presence of a comforter at last, let loose her pent-up misery and sobbed aloud.

"Where is--he? your husband?" said Lettice, remembering that she had heard of Milly's marriage from Mrs. Bundlecombe some time ago, and conjecturing that something had gone wrong, but not yet guessing the whole truth.

Milly sobbed on for a minute or two without replying. Then she said, somewhat indistinctly,

"He's gone away. Left me."

"Left you? But--for a time, you mean? To look for work, perhaps?"

"No, no; he has left me altogether. I shall never see him again--never!"

said the girl, with sudden pa.s.sion. "Oh, don't ask me any more, Miss Lettice, I can't bear it!"

"No, no," said Lettice, pitifully, "I will ask you no questions, Milly.

You shall tell me all about it or nothing, just as you like. We must not keep the baby out in the night air any longer. Come round to the door, and Mrs. Chigwin will let you in. I will tell her that you want a night's lodging, and then we will arrange what you are to do to-morrow."

Milly did not move, however, from her position by the wall. She had ceased to sob, and was twisting her handkerchief nervously between her fingers.

"Do you think Mrs. Chigwin would let me in," she said at last, in a very low voice, "if she _knew_?"

Lettice waited; she saw there was more to come.

"Oh, Miss Lettice," said the girl, with a subdued agony in her tone which went to Lettice's heart; "it wasn't all my fault ... I believed in him so ... I thought he would never deceive me nor behave unkindly to me. But I was deceived: I never, was his wife, though I thought--I thought I was!"

"My dear," said Lettice, gently, "then you were not to blame. Mrs.

Chigwin would only be sorry for you if she knew. But we will not tell her everything at once; you must just come in, if only for baby's sake, and get some food and rest. Come with me now."

And Milly yielded, feeling a certain comfort and relief in having so far told the truth to her former mistress.

Mrs. Chigwin's surprise, when she saw Lettice coming back with the baby in her arms, may well be imagined. But she behaved very kindly: she at once consented to take in Milly for the night and make her comfortable; and, after one keen look at the girl's changed and downcast face, she asked no questions.

For Milly was wonderfully changed--there was no doubt of that. Her pretty fair hair was cropped close to her head; her eyes were sunken, and the lids were red with tears; the bloom had faded from her cheeks, and the roundness of youth had pa.s.sed from face and form alike.

Ill-health and sorrow had gone far to rob her of her fresh young beauty; and the privations which she confessed to having experienced during the last few days had hollowed her eyes, sharpened her features, and bowed her slender form. Her dress was travel-stained and shabby; her boots were down at heel and her thin hands were glove-less. Lettice noticed that she still wore a wedding-ring. But the neat trim look that had once been so characteristic was entirely lost. She was bedraggled and broken down; and Lettice thought with a thrill of horror of what might have happened if Mrs. Chigwin had left Birchmead, or refused to take the wayfarer in. For a woman in Milly's state there would probably have remained only two ways open--the river or the streets.

"I've never had five in my cottage before," said Mrs. Chigwin, cheerfully; "but where there's room for two there's room for half-a-dozen; at least, when they're women and children."

"You must have wondered what had become of me all this time," said Lettice.

"Nay, ma'am; you were in the garden, and that was enough for me. I knew you couldn't be in a better place, whether you were sorrowing or rejoicing. Nought but good comes to one in a garden."

They set food before Milly, and let her rest and recover herself. The child won their hearts at once. It was clean, and healthy, and good to look at; and if Lettice had known that it was her own little niece she could not have taken to it more kindly. Perhaps, indeed, she would not have taken to it at all.

Lettice's visit had greatly excited Mrs. Bundlecombe, who had for some time past been in that precarious state in which any excitement, however slight, is dangerous. She was completely happy, because she had jumped to the conclusion that Lettice would henceforth do for Alan all that she herself would have done if she had been able, but which it was now impossible for her to do. And then it was as though the feeble vitality which remained to her had begun to ebb away from the moment when her need for keeping it had disappeared.

In the early morning, Lettice was roused from her sleep by the restlessness of her companion, and she sat up and looked at her.

"Dearie," said the old woman, in a whisper, "my time is come."

"No, no!" said Lettice, standing by her side. "Let me raise you a little on the pillow; you will feel better presently."

"Yes--better--in heaven! You will take care of my Alan?"

"Oh yes, dear!"

"And love him?"

"And love him."

"Thank G.o.d for that. It will be the saving of him. Call Martha, my dear!"

Lettice went and roused Mrs. Chigwin, who came and kissed her friend.

Then, with a last effort, Aunt Bessy raised her head, and whispered,

"'Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace!'"