"I see what he was driving at. And you think he went."
"None so long ago, I should say. He never see her—not alive. I couldn't say why, only I feel that was the way of it."
"When did you see him last?... No—old girl! I won't do that. It's mean—after sayin' I wouldn't witness-box! Don't you tell me nothing."
"I won't grudge telling you that much, Mo. It's a tidy long time back now. I couldn't say to a day. It was afore I wrote to him to keep away from the Court for fear of the Police.... Yes—I did! Just after Mr. Rowe came round that time, asking inquiries.... I am his wife, Mo—nothing can't alter it."
"I ain't blaming you, old girl."
"Well—it was then he said he'd go to Chorlton again. And he's been."
Silence again, and the sound of the children above. Then a footstep without, recognised as Susan Burr's by its limp.
"She'll have to be told, Mo," said Aunt M'riar. "We've never had a thought for poor Susan."
A commonplace face came white as ashes from the fog without, and a suffocating voice, gasping against sobs. "Oh, M'riar!—Oh, Mr. Wardle!—Is it true she's gone?"
Aunt M'riar could not tighten her lips against their instability and speak, at the same time, so she nodded assent. Uncle Mo said, steadily enough:—"I'm afraid it's true, Mrs. Burr. We can't make it out no otherwise." Then M'riar got self-command to say:—"Yes—she's taken from us. It's the Lord's will." And then they could claim their birthright of tears, the last privilege left to hearts encompassed with the darkness of the grave.