The driver pulled up his nag—never a matter of serious difficulty—and Gabriel came to the door.
"Good morning; are you—are you leaving us?" he stammered, keeping the little gloved hand in his, for very forgetfulness of all that lay without the pretty, frost-kindled face, with its mocking lips.
"Yes, for a few weeks. It is so dull here, month in and month out, isn't it? Such a bother I had to get father to let me go—but aunt has begged me to stay with her for such a long while past, that I could hardly have got out of it this time. Do you never go away, Mr. Hirst?"
"I? Not often. I like the old place well enough, when——"
"Yes, when?"
"When folks treat a man as if he was something better than the mud under their high-heeled boots," said the preacher, with sudden savagery. This pretty scrap of womanhood, with her warm white flesh nestling cosily into her wraps—why did he let himself be driven by her out of his wonted sober courses? For a half-moment, the man of God could have strangled this mocking daughter of Eve.
"I never was treated in that way, so I can't tell; besides, my boots aren't high-heeled," she added inconsequently.
The driver was beating his hands across his chest to keep the cold out, and Greta bethought her of the coach.
"You'll make me late for the coach at Heathley, Mr. Hirst. Good-bye; won't it be a relief to you to have me out of the village? I tease you so, and I believe you don't half like it."
Gabriel Hirst stood there like a fool in the middle of the road, and watched the chaise disappear over the crest of the ill-paved street. Anger had gone from him; religion had gone from him; he was only dazedly conscious of that furry vision which had left him with a careless gibe. He never knew of the bitter tears shed by this same furry vision, who was really no more than a healthy young maiden, with all a life's desires before her; never guessed that she wept through half her journey, and wanted to weep out the other half, had there been tears enough to draw upon, and no one to see them fall.