Barnabas Thorpe was no hypocrite; her womanly instinct spoke for him, though her pride and reason were against him. The last-named qualities woke up only when the spell of his presence was removed.
"I am glad he has gone; after all, you belong to us, Meg," she said.
CHAPTER III.
While Mr. Deane's life was ebbing slowly away in Bryanston Square, George Sauls was making a good fight for his at the farm.
Tom Thorpe had found him on the afternoon of the preacher's departure, the sun shining down pitilessly on the upturned face, the arms spread wide.
Lifting him up, Tom found the wound at the back of the head, made with a bill-hook or hatchet. Whoever had done that, had also turned his victim over to rifle the pockets; for a man hit from behind would naturally fall on his face, and, moreover, the pockets were empty.
"Dead as a door nail!" said Tom. He had remarkably good nerve, but this was a ghastly discovery to come on, on a fine summer's day.
Mr. Sauls was wet with dew; he must have lain there all night. A spider had spun a thread across his chest; it glittered with diamond drops, more numerous and less costly than those that had been stolen. Tom, in lifting him, disturbed also a small brown bird, that had been debating whether this gentleman was really dead—so dead that she might venture to pick off that bit of white cotton hanging from the lining of his pocket, and use it for her household purposes. She had been hopping gradually nearer, but had had her suspicion that, for all his stillness, he was not quite harmless yet; her instinct was keener than Tom's.