“Ess, Martin, ’tis best so. You see this poor child be breedin’ trouble, an’ bringing bad talk against Will. He ban’t wanted—little Timothy—an’ I ban’t wanted overmuch, so it comed to me I’d—I’d just slip away out of the turmoil an’ taake Tim. Then—”
She stopped, for her heart was beating so fast that she could speak no more. She remembered her own arguments in the recent past,—that this flight must tell all who cared to reflect that the child was her own. Now she looked up at Martin to see if he had guessed it. But he exhibited extreme self-control and she was reassured.
“Just like your thoughtful self to try and save others from sorrow. Where are you going to, Chris? Don’t tell me more than you please; but I may be useful to you on this, the first stage of the journey.”
“To Okehampton to-night. To-morrow—but I’d rather not say any more. I don’t care so long as you think I’m right.”
“I haven’t said that yet. But I’ll go as far as Zeal with you. Then we’ll get a covered cab or something. We may reach the village before rain.”
“No call for your coming. ’Tis awnly a short mile.”
“But I must. I’ll carry the laddie. Poor little man! Hard to be the cause of such a bother.”
He picked Timothy up so gently that the child did not wake.
“Now,” he said, “come along. You must be tired already.”
“How gude you be!” she said wearily. “I’m glad you doan’t scold or fall into a rage wi’ me, for I knaw I’m right. The bwoy’s better away, and I’m small use to any now. But I can be busy with this little wan. I might do worse than give up my life to un—eh, Martin?”