"He would not mind, were he alive," sobbed Mehetabel. "He would have cared for me and my babe; he was always kind."
"But he is not alive; that makes the difference," said the servant.
"You really must still the child or go away."
"I cannot go another step," answered Mehetabel, raising her head and sinking it again, after she had spoken.
"I don't know what to do. This is unreasonable; I'll go call the gardener. If you won't go when asked you must be removed by force."
The woman retired, and presently the gardener came up. He knew
Mehetabel—that is to say, knew who she was.
"Come," said he, "my cottage is just yonder. You must not remain here on the green, and in the cold. No wonder the child screams. There is a fire in my house, and you can have what you like for a while, till you are rested. Give me your hand."
Mehetabel allowed him to raise her, and she followed him mechanically from the drive into the cottage, that was warm and pleasant.
"There now, missus," said the man; "make yourself comfortable for an hour or two."
The rest, the warmth, were grateful to Mehetabel. She was almost too weary to thank the man with words, but she looked at him with gratitude, and he felt that her heart was over full for her to speak. He returned to his work, and left her to herself. There was no one else in the cottage, as he was a widower, and had no family.
After a considerable time, when Mehetabel had had time to recruit her strength, he reappeared. The short winter day was already closing in. The cold black vapors rose over the sky, obscuring the little light, as though grudging the earth its brief period of illumination.