"Why did you do that?"
"I thought I shouldn't want it when Tib was gone."
"And where did you throw it? Perhaps it may be found again."
"I won't go and look for it—indeed I won't." He shivered and clung to his sister.
"Where was it? Perhaps I can find it."
"I dropped it at the top—on the down when I came up the steps from—from that man, when he had killed Tib."
"You did not throw it over the cliff?"
"No—I threw it down. I did not think I wanted it any more."
"I dare say it may be found. I will go and see."
"No—no! Don't, Ju. You might meet that man."
Judith smiled. She felt that she was not afraid of that man—he would not hurt her.
As soon as the boy was asleep, Judith descended the stairs, leaving the door ajar, that she might hear should he wake in a fright, and entering the little sitting-room, took up her needles and wool, and seated herself quietly by the window, where the last glimmer of twilight shone, to continue her work at a jersey she was knitting for Jamie's use in the winter.
The atmosphere was charged with tobacco-smoke, almost as much as that of the adjoining workshop. There was no door between the rooms; none had been needed formerly, and Mr. Menaida did not think of supplying one now. It was questionable whether one would have been an advantage, as Jamie ran to and fro, and would be certain either to leave the door open or to slam it, should one be erected. Moreover, a door meant payment to a carpenter for timber and labor. There was no carpenter in the village, and Mr. Menaida spent no more money than he was absolutely obliged to spend, and how could he on an annuity of fifty pounds.
Judith dropped her woolwork in her lap and fell into meditation. She reviewed what had just taken place: she saw before her again Coppinger, strongly built, with his dark face, and eyes that glared into the soul to its lowest depths, illumining all, not as the sun, but as the lightning, and suffering not a thought, not a feeling to remain obscure.
A second time had Jamie done what angered him, but
