"Why should ye? He'll get a better school, perhaps be a parson, in time, and you'll keep two servants. 'Tis a pity to spoil them pretty hands."
"Don't talk of my pretty hands, Mrs. Edlin. This pretty body of mine has been the ruin of me already!"
"Pshoo—you've got no body to speak of! You put me more in mind of a sperrit. But there seems something wrong to-night, my dear. Husband cross?"
"No. He never is. He's gone to bed early."
"Then what is it?"
"I cannot tell you. I have done wrong to-day. And I want to eradicate it.... Well—I will tell you this: Jude has been here this afternoon, and I find I still love him—oh, grossly! I cannot tell you more."
"Ah!" said the widow. "I told 'ee how 'twould be!"
"But it sha'n't be! I have not told my husband of his visit; it is not necessary to trouble him about it, as I never mean to see Jude any more. But I am going to make my conscience right on my duty to Richard—by doing a penance—the ultimate thing. I must!"
"I wouldn't—since he agrees to it being otherwise, and it has gone on three months very well as it is."
"Yes—he agrees to my living as I choose; but I feel it is an indulgence I ought not to exact from him. It ought not to have been accepted by me. To reverse it will be terrible—but I must be more just to him. Oh, why was I so unheroic!"
"What is it you don't like in him?" asked Mrs. Edlin, curiously.
"I cannot tell you. It is something.... I cannot say. The mournful thing is, that nobody would admit it as a reason for feeling as I do; so that no excuse is left me."
"Did you ever tell Jude what it was?"
"Never."
"I've heard strange tales o' husbands in my time," observed the widow, in a lowered voice. "They say that when the saints were upon the earth devils used to take
