CRADDOCK went out on his new horse and returned .  
“He was as quiet as a lamb,” he said. “I could ride him with my arms tied behind my back; and as to jumping—he takes a five-barred gate in his stride.”
 
Bertha was a little angry with him for having caused her such terror, angry with herself also for troubling.
 
“And it was rather lucky I had him to-day. Old Lord Philip Dirk was there, and he asked Branderton who I was. ‘You tell him,’ says he, ‘that it isn’t often I’ve seen a man ride as well as he does.’ You should see Branderton, he isn’t half glad at having let me take the beast for thirty-five quid. And Mr. Molson came up to me and said, ‘I knew that horse would get into your hands before long, you’re the only man in this part who can ride it—but if it don’t break your neck, you’ll be lucky.’”
 
He recounted with great satisfaction the compliments paid to him.
 
“We had a jolly good run to-day.... And how are you, dear, feeling comfy? Oh, I forgot to tell you—you know Rodgers, the huntsman, well, he said to me, ‘That’s a fine you’ve got there, sir, but he takes some riding.’—‘I know he does,’ I said; ‘but I flatter myself I know a thing or two more than most horses.’ They all thought I should get rolled over before the day was out, but I just went slick at everything to show I wasn’t frightened.”
 
Then he gave details of the affair; and he had as great a passion for the as a German historian. He was one of those men who take infinite pains over trifles, flattering themselves that they never do things by halves. Bertha had a headache, and her husband bored her; she thought herself a great fool to be so concerned about his safety.
 
 
 
As the months wore on Miss Glover became very . The parson’s sister looked upon birth as a mysteriously heart-fluttering business, which, however, required decent people to ignore. She treated her friend in an absurdly self-conscious manner, and blushed like a peony when Bertha referred to the coming event. The greatest of Miss Glover’s life was that, as lady of the Vicarage, she had to manage the Bag, an institution to provide the infants of the with articles of raiment and their mothers with petticoats. She could never, without much confusion, ask the necessary information of the beneficiaries in her charity; feeling that the whole thing ought not to be discussed at all, she kept her eyes , and acted generally so as to cause great indignation.
 
“Well,” said one good lady, “I’d rather not ’ave her bag at all than be treated like that. Why, she treats you as if—well, as if you wasn’t married.”
 
“Yes,” said another, “that’s just what I complain of—I promise you I ’ad ’alf a mind to take my marriage lines out of my pocket an’ show ’er. It ain’t nothin’ to be ashamed about—nice thing it would be after ’avin’ sixteen, if I was bashful.”
 
But of course the more unpleasant a duty was, the more did Miss Glover perform it; she felt it right to visit Bertha with frequency, and manfully bore the young wife’s in referring to an unpleasant subject. She carried her to the pitch of knitting socks for the forthcoming baby, although to do so made her heart palpitate uncomfortably; and when she was surprised at the work by her brother, her cheeks burned like two fires.
 
“Now, Bertha dear,” she said one day, pulling herself together and straightening her back as she always did when she was the flesh. “Now, Bertha dear, I want to talk to you seriously.”
 
Bertha smiled. “Oh don’t, Fanny; you know how uncomfortable it makes you.”
 
“I must,” answered the good creature, gravely. “I know you’ll think me ridiculous, but it’s my duty.”
 
“I shan’t think anything of the kind,” said Bertha, touched with her friend’s .
 
“Well, you talk a great deal of—of what’s going to happen”—Miss Glover blushed—“but I’m not sure if you are really prepared for it.”
 
“Oh, is that all?” cried Bertha. “The nurse will be here in a fortnight, and Dr. Ramsay says she’s a most reliable woman.”
 
“I wasn’t thinking of earthly preparations,” said Miss Glover. “I was thinking of the other. Are you quite sure you’re approaching the—the thing, in the right spirit?”
 
“What do you want me to do?”
 
“It isn’t what I want you to do. It’s what you ought to do. I’m nobody. But have you thought at all of the spiritual side of it?”
 
Bertha gave a sigh that was chiefly . “I’ve thought that I’m going to have a son, that’s mine and Eddie’s; and I’m thankful.”
 
“Wouldn’t you like me to read the Bible to you sometimes?”
 
“Good heavens, you talk as if I were going to die.”
 
“One can never tell, dear Bertha,” replied Miss Glover, sombrely; “I think you ought to be prepared.... ‘In the midst of life we are in death’—one can never tell what may happen.”
 
Bertha looked at her somewhat anxiously. She had been forcing herself of late to be cheerful, and had found it necessary to a of evil fortune. The Vicar’s sister never realised that she was doing everything possible to make Bertha unhappy.
 
“I brought my own Bible with me,” she said. “Do you mind if I read you a chapter?”
 
“I should like it,” said Bertha, and a cold shiver went through her.
“Have you got any preference for some particular part?” asked Miss Glover, extracting the book from a little black bag which she always carried.
 
On Bertha’s answer that she had no preference, Miss Glover suggested opening the Bible at , and reading on from the first line that crossed her eyes.
 
“Charles doesn’t quite approve of it,” she said; “he thinks it of . But I can’t help doing it, and the early Protestants constantly did the same.”
 
Miss Glover, having opened the book with closed eyes, began to read: “The sons of Pharez! Hezron, and Hamul. And the sons of Zerah; Zimri, and Ethan, and Heman, and Calcol, and Dara; five of them in all.” Miss Glover cleared her throat. “And the sons of Ethan; Azariah. The sons also of Hezron, that were born unto him; Jerahmeel, and , and Chelubai. And Ram begat Amminadab; and Amminadab begat Nahshon, prince of the children of Judah.” She had fallen upon the genealogical table at the beginning of the Book of Chronicles. The chapter was very long, and consisted of names, and difficult to pronounce; but Miss Glover shirked not one of them. With grave and somewhat high-pitched delivery, modelled on her brother’s, she read out the bewildering list. Bertha looked at her in .
 
“That’s the end of the chapter,” she said at last; “would you like me to read you another one?”
 
“Yes, I should like it very much; but I don’t think the part you’ve hit on is quite to the point.”
 
“My dear, I don’t want to reprove you—that’s not my duty—but all the Bible is to the point.”
 
 
 
And as the time passed, Bertha quite lost her courage and was often seized by a panic fear. Suddenly, without obvious cause, her heart sank and she asked herself how she could possibly get through it. She thought she was going to die, and wondered what would happen if she did. What would Edward do without her? Thinking of his bitter grief the tears came to her eyes, but her lips trembled with self-pity when the suspicion came that he would not be heartbroken: he was not a man to feel either grief or joy very . He would not weep; at............