"Ethel?" was all he found to say.
"Yes, Bob; I am Ethel. And God forgive you."
Of the change in him she said nothing; but held out her hand with a
smile.
"Marry me, Bob, or send me back: I give you leave to do either, and
advise you to send me back. Twelve years ago you might have been proud
of me, and so I might have helped you. As it is, I have travelled far,
and am tired. I can never help you now."
And though he married her, she never did.
II.--BOANERGES.
"Bill Penberthy's come back, I hear."
The tin-smith was sharpening his pocket-knife on the parapet of the
bridge, and, without troubling to lift his eyes, threw just enough
interrogation into the remark to show that he meant it to lead to
conversation. Every one of the dozen men around him held a knife, so
that a stranger, crossing the bridge, might have suspected a popular
rising in the village. But, as a matter of fact, they were merely
waiting for their turn. There is in the parapet one stone upon which
knives may be sharpened to an incomparable edge; and, for longer
than I can remember, this has supplied the men of Gantick with the
necessary excuse for putting their heads together on fine evenings and
discussing the news.
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