"My girl," he said, "I fear you're in a bad way. I don't like to see a young woman, pretty as I can see you are even now, standing on a bridge, with a baby, talking to herself."
"You mistake me," she said, "I was not going to do that; I was resting and thinking."
"Where are you going?" he asked.
"To Crediton," she replied. "Once there, I should almost fancy myself safe."
"See here," he said; "my waggon is coming up behind. I can give you a lift as far as there. Are you hungry?"
"Ah," she said, "If you knew. If you only knew!"
They waited for the waggon's coming up, for they could hear the horses' bells chiming cheerily across the valley. "I had an only daughter went away once," he said. "But, glory to God! I got her back again, though she brought a child with her. And I've grown to be fonder of that poor little base-born one than anything in this world. So cheer up."
"I am married," she said; "this is my lawful boy, though it were better, perhaps, he had never been born."
"Don't say that, my girl," said the old farmer, for such she took him to be, "but thank God you haven't been deceived like so many are."
The waggon came up and was stopped. He made her take such refreshment as was to be got, and then get in and lie quiet among the straw till in the grey morning they reached Crediton. The weather had grown bad again, and long before sunrise, after thanking and blessing her benefactor, poor Mary struck off once more, with what strength she had left, along the deep red lanes, through the driving rain.