“Now, John, dear! Good-night, May! Good-night, Bertha,” she said.
How could she kiss them? How be so blithe and gay in her parting? Why didn’t she blush? Tackleton as well as John wondered.
Tilly was hushing the baby and as she walked to and fro, she was repeating drowsily: “Did they thought that it was to be its wives wring its heart almost to breaking? and did it weep all nights when nobody was there to see it?”
“Now, Tilly, give me the baby,” said little Mrs. Peerybingle. “Good-night, Mr. Tackleton. Where’s John, for goodness’ sake?”
“He’s going to walk beside the horse’s head,” said Tackleton, who helped her into the cart.
“My dear John! Walk?—to-night?”
The muffled figure of her husband made a hasty sign; and the Stranger and nurse being by this time in their places, the old horse moved off, Boxer running on before, running back, running round and round the cart, and barking merrily.
When Tackleton had gone off likewise, taking May and her mother, poor Caleb sat down by the fire beside his daughter. The toys that had been wound and set in motion for the baby had run down long ago. In the silence one might have imagined that they had been stricken motionless with wonder at Dot being false, or Tackleton beloved under any set of circumstances.
Presently Bertha spoke.
“After Mr. Tackleton is married, we shall not see so much of him, shall we, Father?”