He was wrapped up to the chin, and busy with
his horse and parcels, when she came into the room,
prepared for going home.
'Now John, dear! Good night May! Good night
Bertha!'
Could she kiss them? Could she be blithe and
cheerful in her parting? Could she venture to re-
veal her face to them without a blush? Yes. Tackle-
ton observed her closely, and she did all this.
Tilly was hushing the Baby, and she crossed and
re-crossed Tackleton, a dozen times, repeating
drowsily:
'Did the knowledge that it was to be its wifes, then,
wring its hearts almost to breaking; and did its
fathers deceive it from its cradles but to break its
hearts at last!'
'Now Tilly, give me the Baby! Good-night, Mr.
Tackleton. Where's John, for goodness' sake?'
'He's going to walk, beside the horse's head,' said
Tackleton; who helped her to her seat.
'My dear John. Walk? To-night?'
The muffled figure of her husband made a hasty
sign in the affirmative; and the false stranger and
the little nurse being in their places, the old horse
moved off.
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