Mrs. Brattle was waiting at the stile opposite to Mr. Gilmore’s gate as Mr. Fenwick drove up to the spot. No doubt the dear old woman had been there for the last half-hour, thinking that the walk would take her twice as long as it did, and fearing that she might keep the Vicar waiting. She had put on her Sunday clothes and her Sunday bonnet, and when she climbed up into the vacant place beside her friend she found her position to be so strange that for a while she could hardly speak. He said a few words to her, but pressed her with no questions, understanding the cause of her embarrassment. He could not but think that of all his parishioners no two were so unlike each other as were the miller and his wife. The one was so hard and invincible;—the other so soft and submissive! Nevertheless it had always been said that Brattle had been a tender and affectionate husband. By degrees the woman’s awe at the horse and gig and strangeness of her position wore off, and she began to talk of her daughter. She had brought a little bundle with her, thinking that she might supply feminine wants, and had apologised humbly for venturing to come so laden. Fenwick, who remembered what Carry had said about money that she still had, and who was nearly sure that the murderers had gone to Pycroft Common after the murder had been committed, had found a difficulty in explaining to Mrs. Brattle that her child was probably not in want. The son had been accused of the murder of the man, and now the Vicar had but little doubt that the daughter was living on the proceeds of the robbery. “It’s a hard life she must be living, Mr. Fenwick, with an old ‘ooman the likes of that,” said Mrs. Brattle. “Perhaps if I’d brought a morsel of some’at to eat—”

“I don’t think they’re pressed in that way, Mrs. Brattle.”

“Ain’t they now? But it’s a’most worse, Mr. Fenwick, when one thinks where it’s to come from. The Lord have mercy on her, and bring her out of it!”

“Amen,” said the Vicar.

“And is she bright at all, and simple still? She was the brightest, simplest lass in all Bull’ompton, I used to think. I suppose her old ways have a’most left her, Mr. Fenwick?”

“I thought her very like what she used to be.”

“‘Deed now, did you, Mr. Fenwick? And she wasn’t mopish and slatternly like?”

“She was tidy enough. You wouldn’t wish me to say that she was happy?”

“I suppose not, Mr. Fenwick. I shouldn’t ought;—ought I, now? But, Mr. Fenwick, I’d give my left hand she should be happy and gay once more. I suppose none but a mother feels it, but the sound of her voice through the house was ever the sweetest music I know’d on. It’ll never have the same ring again, Mr. Fenwick.”

He could not tell her that it would. That sainted sinner of whom he had reminded Mr. Puddleham, though she had attained to the joy of the Lord,—even she had never regained the mirth of her young innocence. There is a bloom on the flower which may rest there till the flower has utterly perished, if the handling of it be sufficiently delicate;—but no care, nothing that can be done by friends on earth, or even by better friendship from above, can replace that when once displaced. The sound of which the mother was thinking could never be heard again from Carry Brattle’s voice. “If we could only get her home once more,” said the Vicar, “she might be a good daughter to you still.”

“I’d be a good mother to her, Mr. Fenwick;—but I’m thinking he’ll never have it so. I never knew him to change on a thing like that, Mr. Fenwick. He felt it that keenly, it nigh killed ’im. Only that he took it out o’ hisself in thrashing that wicked man, I a’most think he’d a’ died o’ it.”

Again the Vicar drove to the Bald-faced Stag, and again he walked along the road and over the common. He offered his arm to the old woman, but she wouldn’t accept it; nor would she upon any entreaty allow him to carry her bundle. She assured him that his doing so would make her utterly wretched, and at last he gave up the point. She declared that she suffered nothing from fatigue, and that her two miles’ walk would not be more than her Sunday journey to church and back. But as she drew near to the house she became uneasy, and once asked to be allowed to pause for a moment. “May be, then,” said she, “after all, my girl’d rather that I wouldn’t trouble her.” He took her by the arm and led her along, and comforted her,—assuring her that if she would take her child in her arms Carry would for the moment be in a heaven of happiness. “Take her into my arms, Mr. Fenwick? Why,—isn’t she in my very heart of hearts at this moment? And I won’t say not a word sharp to her;—not now, Mr. Fenwick. And why would I say sharp words at all? I suppose she understands it all.”

“I think she does, Mrs. Brattle.”

They had now reached the door, and the Vicar knocked. No answer came at once; but such had been the case when he knocked before. He had learned to understand that in such a household it might not be wise to admit all comers without consideration. So he knocked again,—and then again. But still there came no answer. Then he tried the door, and found that it was locked. “May be she’s seen me coming,” said the mother, “and now she won’t let me in.” The Vicar then went round the cottage, and found that the back door also was closed. Then he looked in at one of the front windows, and became aware that no one was sitting, at least in the kitchen. There was an upstairs room, but of that the window wa............