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Meanwhile he tried in vain to talk to Condemnation. She would scarcely open her lips except to answer: "Aye, Sir," or "Nay, Sir." Sometimes she would not answer at all. But all the time he could hear her quick, short breath behind him, and the shuffle of her feet on the dry leaves. A great pity and tenderness welled up for her in his heart. He would break down her shyness, which was no doubt a part of her general fear of life; his kindness at last should make her his friend, and she should be to him as the daughters he had lost—as the youth that was departing from the house. . . . He felt her suddenly as youth, moving with him down the autumn lane, bearing on her strong young shoulders the burden that was too much for his. At that moment it seemed as if it were she who helped him with his burden instead of he who helped her. Then he remembered how she had staggered under it alone and his indignation came swinging back.

"Courage, bud," he comforted, "we're nearly home." They passed a pair of cottages at Farthingland, and the woman outside them gaped and giggled to see the old Parson—as they called him to distinguish him from Dr. Braceley—go by with Harman's bastard, carrying a load of wood together. They could see it was the Parson, though his face was hidden, because of his cassock trailing in the mud from his bent knees. Now and then he trod on it and stumbled, and they laughed louder. A waggoner laughed too as he drew his horses to the side of the road to let the strange couple go by.