The girl turned away. She did not speak, nor even mutter, nor even sigh. But her wan little face was set and hard.
She looked down the road towards the open country, and up it where the cottages clustered, and she chose the forward way.
Wayfarers had almost cleared out of the village street, for it was quite dark now and bitterly cold; fires were burning and supper was preparing behind frosty windows and scanty window-curtains. Here and there a weary labourer or hurrying house-wife trudged past, but most people were indoors by now, most people were at home.
The girl walked on till she came near to the public-house near the village-end, where the signpost points separate fingers up the fork of the road.
There was a solitary lamp above the post-office hard by, and she stopped under it and put her hand in her pocket; the thimble and one halfpenny was all that she drew out, and she put them back again.
Then she looked behind her.
There was no one by, no one coming, and she crept stealthily up to the window of the “public,” and laid her face against the cold pane, gazing into the light and brightness and warmth within.
There were four or five men clustered round a table near the fire, and a few more standing at the bar with a couple of girls.
One of them at the table was singing in a loud voice; he was young—very young—and it was a good voice, and whatever were the words, the ditty seemed to please the company.
There was a roar of laughter every now and then, and whenever he stopped a cry of “Go on, Nat, go on, lad! That’s right,” and so forth.