to Job, and, more civilly than Mary expected, wished him good-bye.
He then turned to her, and in a short cold manner, bade her
farewell.

"Oh! father, don't go yet. Your supper is all ready. Stay one
moment."

But he pushed her away, and was gone. She followed him to the door,
her eyes blinded by sudden tears; she stood there looking after him.
He was so strange, so cold, so hard. Suddenly, at the end of the
court, he turned, and saw her standing there; he came back quickly,
and took her in his arms.

"God bless thee, Mary!--God in heaven bless thee, poor child!" She
threw her arms round his neck.

"Don't go yet, father; I can't bear you to go yet. Come in, and eat
some supper; you look so ghastly; dear father, do!"

"No," he said, faintly and mournfully. "It's best as it is. I
couldn't eat, and it's best to be off. I cannot be still at home.
I must be moving."

So saying, he unlaced her soft twining arms, and kissing her once
more, set off on his fierce errand.

And he was out of sight! She did not know why, but she had never
before felt so depressed, so desolate. She turned in to Job, who
sat there still. Her father, as soon as he was out of sight,
slackened his pace, and fell into that heavy listless step which