* * * * *
He went away considerably relieved in his mind, but still suffering that sullen uneasiness in his soul.
XLIV
It was the last week in June.
Mary Cartaret sat in the door of the cottage by the beck. And in her lap she held Essy's baby. Essy had run in to the last cottage in the row to look after her great aunt, the Widow Gale, who had fallen out of bed in the night.
The Widow Gale, in her solitude, had formed the habit of falling out of bed. But this time she had hurt her head, and Essy had gone for the doctor and had met Miss Mary in the village and Mary had come with her to help.
For by good luck—better luck than the Widow Gale deserved—it was a
Wednesday. Rowcliffe had sent word that he would come at three.
It was three now.
And as he passed along the narrow path he saw Mary Cartaret in the doorway with the baby in her lap.
She smiled at him as he went by.