He led her back to her chair, and did not loosen his light grasp on her hand while he told her the story as he had heard it. His own mood was so subdued that it was easier than he had thought to use words which would lighten the first weight of the blow.
She asked no questions after his explanation was over.
"He's a poor man," she said at last,—"a poor man, but—we was poor before."
Suddenly her tears burst forth.
"They've said hard things to me to-day," she cried. "I don't believe 'em, Jem, my dear—now less than ever."
He comforted her as best he could. He could easily understand what they had told her, how much of the truth and how much of angry falsehood.
"When he comes back," she said, "I shall be here to meet him. Wherever he is, an' however much he's broke down with trouble, he knows that. He'll come here to-night, an' I shall be here."
Before he went away he asked if he might send Christian or his mother to her. But though she thanked him, she refused.
"I know how good they'd be," she said, "an' what a comfort in the lonesomeness, but when he comes he'll want to be alone, an' a unfamiliar face might trouble him."
But he did not come back. The day went on, and the excitement increased and waned by turns. The crowd grew and surged about the Bank and shouted itself hoarse, and would have broken a few windows if it had not been restrained by the police force, who appeared upon the field; and there were yells for Haworth and for Ffrench, but by this time Mr. Ffrench had reached Rotterdam and Haworth was—no one knew where, since he
