Grace looked at her quickly. “Then did you know I was here?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Did you tell anybody?”
“No. I knew you lived in the hut, that he had gied it up to ye, and lodged out himself.”
“Did you know where he lodged?”
“No. That I couldn’t find out. Was it at Delborough?”
“No. It was not there, Marty. Would it had been! It would have saved—saved—” To check her tears she turned, and seeing a book on the window-bench, took it up. “Look, Marty, this is a Psalter. He was not an outwardly religious man, but he was pure and perfect in his heart. Shall we read a psalm over him?”
“Oh yes—we will—with all my heart!”
Grace opened the thin brown book, which poor Giles had kept at hand mainly for the convenience of whetting his pen-knife upon its leather covers. She began to read in that rich, devotional voice peculiar to women only on such occasions. When it was over, Marty said, “I should like to pray for his soul.”
“So should I,” said her companion. “But we must not.”