"Fretting out the why's and wherefore's," came the response, muffled by a handkerchief pressed close to her mouth.
"And—this 'why'?" I whispered, stooping low.
"That's between him and his Maker," said the voice. "The poor young man had set his heart on we know where. As we make our bed so we must lie on it, miss. It's for nobody to judge: though it may be a lesson."
"Oh, Mrs Bowater, then you knew I knew."
"No, no. Not your lesson, miss. I didn't mean that. It's not for you to fret yourself, though I must say—— I have always made it a habit, though without prying, please God, to be aware of more than interference could set right. Fanny and I have talked the affair over till we couldn't look in each other's faces for fear of what we might say. But she's Mr Bowater's child, through and through, and my firm hand was not firm enough, maybe. You did what you could. It's not in human conscience to ask more than the natural frame can bear."
Did what I could.... I cowered, staring at my knuckles, and it seemed that a little concourse of strangers, heads close together, were talking in my mind. My eyes were dry; I think the spectre of a smile had dragged up my lips. Mrs Bowater raised herself in her bed, and peered over at me.
"It's the letters," she whispered at me. "If he hasn't destroyed them, they'll be read to the whole parish."
I crouched lower. "You'll be thankful to be rid of me. I shall be thankful to be rid of myself, Mrs Bowater."
She thrust a long, skinny arm clean out of the bed. "Come away, there; come away," she cried.