“It isn’t true, father; he wouldn’t marry Madge Emlin, with her cruel, deceitful heart.”
“No, my lass; he’s chucked her over too. He’s going to marry Sir John Day’s gal, over at Brackley Hall—her who came here and painted your face in the sun bonnet, when you were home those few days the time I had rheumatiz.”
“Is this true, father?”
“As true as gospel, lass.”
She gave him a long, searching look, as if reading his very soul, and then crept back to a low chair, sank down, and buried her face in her hands.
“Hah!” he said to himself, “she takes it better than I thought for. Thank God, it wasn’t too late.”
He stood thinking for a few minutes.
“Where am I to get a cottage, Judy, my lass?” he said at last. “One of those at Lindham might do for the present, out there by your grandmother’s, if there’s one empty. Mother Wattley would know. I’ll go and see her. Let’s get out of this. Poor old place, though,” he said, as he looked round. “It seems rather hard.”
Judith had raised her head, and sat gazing straight before her, right into the future, but she did not speak.